


Avalanche

by worldaccordingtofangirls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gift Fic, M/M, Multi-chap, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:43:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worldaccordingtofangirls/pseuds/worldaccordingtofangirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. War on the streets of London. Army doctor John Watson is retired from the desert front to a clinic, caring for injured soldiers. Sherlock Holmes is in the basement plotting out secret formulas like stories. Mapping chaos. They should never have met. But love is curious. A disease. In the heart one tiny pebble shifts. Infection. There is no cure. And one by one the stones begin to tumble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU in the most technical terms, but very similar to canon. Post-modern setting. Rated for mature themes, some disturbing situations, war violence, mild gore, death, and eventual sexual situations. Updates weekly. 
> 
> This whole shebang is a gift for my friend [cybrille](http://cybrille.tumblr.com/), who gave me the idea and plotted most of the story right along with me. We also had some help from [wholock-rab](http://wholock-rab.com/), and a guy we just call shanix. Anyways, thank you so much for reading, and I sincerely hope you enjoy!

It’s a cliché, but they say that the smallest pebble begins the avalanche. Unaware of its own enormity, the tiny thing shifts out of place by a millimeter, or not even so much. Perhaps it was prey to caprice. Perhaps there was no reason at all. In any case, it happened. It moved. There is an inhale. An unsteady exhale. An irregular heartbeat. The world pauses. Blinks. Bates its breath. Watches. And one by one the stones begin to tumble.

For John Watson, the little girl with her face pulled white and wan over her cheekbones like the skin of a leather drum is the pebble.

She wanders into the clinic clutching her hands together in front of her chest as if caught halfway through a prayer. Veins bulge sickly blue and purple from her wrists and fingers. She is wearing a pink cotton dress and her face and lips are stained with ash. The nurses swoop down on her like birds of prey, their crisp caps and pressed white skirts flared to ward off competitors. She begins to cry.

She has no papers, no parents. Not uncommon nowadays. Perhaps her family was killed in the last raid. Perhaps the father is off fighting and the mother was shot by a stray bullet. Perhaps she is a stranger in London and she saw them all slaughtered in some faraway village. In any case they hand her off to John. He’s worked on the front. He has experience in these things. Doesn’t he? He wonders how much experience is enough. Never enough. The little girl clings to his neck. 

She is exhausted and lies still until he settles her on the examination table and presses the cold stethoscope to her chest. She yelps and scrambles away from the touch of the freezing metal. He furrows his brow and makes a hushing sound from the back of his throat. She whimpers. It is some time before he coaxes her onto her lap and is able to listen again. Her heartbeat flutters and trills. She breathes shallowly, but he knows she is only nervous. Now and then a small sob shivers through her ribcage. He frowns and examines her mouth and eyes. Past the small enamel ridge of her teeth, her tongue and throat look healthy.

Were it not for the gauntness in her cheeks and the translucent smile that she gave him when he awarded her a lollipop, he would not have run a single test. He only wanted an excuse to put her up in the pediatric ward, to feed her, to keep her from being shot or tripping over a mine on the streets. The slightest irregularity in white count or blood pressure would have sufficed. But his head swims at the lab results. Beneath her papery skin rages chaos.

The pediatric ward is out of the question; so is intensive care. He will take her to the clinic and watch her. He only trusts himself with the task. The girl takes the news calmly. Relief even flickers into her expression. She thanks him quietly. Startled, he asks her why.

“Because they feel funny,” she whispers, “my fingers and toes.”

John takes her hand. Her fingertips are swollen and flushed, and her toes, too, so much that the nails have begun to disappear. He frowns and plucks her from the examination table. She burrows into the crook of his shoulder and her skinny arms seal around his neck. The whole world cannot help but to trust John. He is a good doctor perhaps more because of who he is than his medical degree at all.

The little girl smells like ash and gunpowder and old rain. She needs a bath. John gives her to Sarah, the only nurse he really trusts. The girl cries out and reaches for him, but he hushes her and Sarah puts a hand in her hair, strokes it back from her forehead with a murmur of comfort. She glances at him and he dips his chin. The instructions are understood.

John files the report, and thinks nothing of it.

-

Every patient is a memory. Every pale new face, every heartbeat, every shuddering breath, is another glimpse back to the war hospital on the front. John sees a bullet wound and a thousand more surface to his memory. The sun beats down on his head and he tastes dust and blood. He has come to prefer the latter because the dust dries his lips, which are already cracked so much that it hurts him to smile. He sees a shattered rib and hears the abandoned soldier pillowed on the scorching sand crying for water. He feels his own canteen heavy at his belt; he struggles against the hands that hold him back.

Doctor, no; see here, they’ll shoot at the wind.

Better to forget him.

Don’t you know that people go out there to die?

He sinks into the sand and buries his face in his hands. The heat soaks through his canvas trousers and sears blisters into the skin of his knees. The cries of the injured soldier grow fainter and fainter. The rattle of Death comes into his voice. And oh, if war ruins a man then to be a war doctor opens him up and examines his insides and rearranges them a bit and sews the skin back together with jagged black stitches. John tastes and touches Death and Death tastes and touches John. It is a careful surgery. The most intimate of connections. The closest friendship and the most possessive friend. It is not often, after all, that Death lets himself be forgotten.

And so his presence – Death, that is – becomes more familiar. John crouches at bedsides and watches as skin yellows and bellies bloated like balloons, and Death checks the time. John picks over an abandoned battlefield and discovers that rotted blood smells sweet, and Death swoops onto the young man at the right and shows off his twisted expression with a leer. John ties off fresh stitches and Death hovers anxiously at his side, twiddling his thumbs and hoping that the infection will spread. John cannot help his own kindness and he runs out of morphine a month. No new provisions come. Every time a soldier faints from the pain, Death hopes that he will never break from his slumber.

Centuries have passed since the days of the trenches, of the clusters of barbed wire, of the terror of nuclear fallout. In modern days such as these war is supposed to be a refined art. But blood colors the sand of the desert. The winds blow smoke and the thick smell of carnage. The hospital reeks most of all. The air is hazy and heavy with pain and morphine and last words. Every day is punctuated by new corpses and yet the mattresses are never empty.

The slow onset of madness only sharpens John. His fingers fly over every stitch. He breaks bones and snaps them back into place and ties tourniquets with his teeth. He no longer wastes the morphine because he can smell when a young man will die. He can feel the air thicken. He can hear Death chuckle in satisfaction. He fancies he can even see him bend over the mattress and take the tormented face in one hand to close the eyes forever. Worst of all he begins to see the mercy therein. And so they have become the best of friends.

He cannot believe it when they tell him that the fighting has spread to Europe, that they want him in London. Impossible. The streets of London are impervious. They are too old and stubborn. The people of London do not die on the streets of London. Guns are not fired on the people of London in the streets of London. Never mind whether the United Kingdom started the war. Such matters are of little importance. One does not make war in the streets of London. One talks of war. One declares war. One plots and schemes and perpetrates war. But one does not make war.

Oh, but how the times have changed!

Death watches John dress in fresh civilian clothing. A sweater and khaki trousers are foreign; his callused fingers catch on the soft nap of the fabric. He gazes at himself in the mirror. Bewilderment. There is no dust anymore, no sweat, no ownerless blood on his palms. His shoes are so bold as to shine in the dull light of the military base. He feels naked.

Death follows him onto the army helicopter. The pilot smiles and drops a few jokes as easily as he might a spoonful of cream into coffee. He only does transports from one base to another and so he has not seen the twisted faces of the young recruits strewn dead in the soft golden folds of the dunes. He has not seen the women broken on the pavement still clutching the hands of their children. He has not seen the wasteland of the desert. He has heard a lot about Death, but has yet to shake his hand.

For his part, John is surprised when he peers out the window and does not see a scar of blood on the sand.

A dreamlike week of travel. The helicopter cuts through shimmering heat waves, sails high above ragged snowy mountains, finally slips back into the cool grey envelope of the European sky. John wakes to find himself in Heathrow. He takes a cab. Military blockades, small fires that send shivering fingers of smoke towards the sky, occasional spatters of gunfire, screams of shattering glass, flickering eyes of citizens who daren’t so much as dart from their homes to fetch the newspaper. He is stunned. He cannot even speak. Death is rather pleased and gloats in the silence.

They take him straight to the clinic. At this point in the war, the military hasn’t even the funds to get him a flat. In fact, they have barely spotted him enough for the cab. But a fat book of coupons rests in his suitcase along with his pistol and his dog tags, and this is everything he needs. There will be extra food and clothing at the clinic. He can sleep at his desk.

He hopes he will be busy.

Death assures him of it, cracking his bony knuckles with a leer.

And so his life begins anew.

John easily becomes immersed in these memories. In the public opinion this is his greatest failing as a doctor. Too easily affected, they say, too easily lost. Soft and malleable around the edges like worn modeling clay. Usually only Sarah can shake him from the claws of his past. Her hand on his shoulder is cool and wakes him from the desert wasteland and the invisible scar of blood.

But even so, with every new patient John relives his first acquaintance with Death. 

-

The report comes in at half past seven, and there is chaos with nothing more than one matching symptom. He wishes they would hush. Excitement will accomplish nothing. Besides, the little flutes of glass are delicate things. He balances them carefully between his fingertips and measures drops from a pipette. He would prefer silence and still air. With so much noise it seems the test tubes might shatter at the slightest provocation. The idea is irrational but unsettling nevertheless. The lab is ruptured by clattering footsteps and crackling white coats. He wants to scream. But he never does.

Molly flutters past for the umpteenth time. Her lipstick is smeared and her hair is a fright and the collar of her shirt is drawn erratically across her collarbone. Her chest is heaving. She is more agitated than the others. No good reason. He sneers at the test tube. She should know better and he tells her so just as she races for the far door of the lab again. She skids to a halt.

“But what if…” Words punctuated by a tremor in her voice. He rolls his eyes.

“Do forgive me for saying so, Ms. Hooper,” he says without looking up from the test tube, “but if the world acted on every _what if_ which we encounter each day, very little would ever come to pass.”

He can hear Molly hesitate. It is a tense sound. Eventually she lets up on her lower lip. There is lipstick on her teeth. Poor girl. She quietly admits that he is right.

“Of course I am,” he replies. “I always am.”

She smiles thinly. He ignores her and empties the rest of the liquid from the pipette. He lifts the test tube and chuckles as it exhales a slender finger of smoke. He swirls it gently. The smoke dissipates. Interesting. Most scientists would jot down notes. Most would fill journal upon journal with their findings. And after that most would strut about bubbling over about their discoveries. They would strip off every last bit of value by rattling facts away for the price of a few impressed looks. Disgusting.

He jots down his notes in the corners of his minds and catalogues them in the endless annals of his subconscious. Symptoms. Spread. Name. Latin roots. Time of death. Cure. Evolution. The most prestigious science journals would throw themselves at his feet for the slightest snippet of his discoveries. He divulges nothing. He sees no reason to do so. Other people would not understand. To explain would be a waste. Ordinary scientists would be baffled. Then they would want to know where the notebooks were. They would stare in bewilderment when he tapped his own temple with a smirk. Ordinary. Dense human beings. Uninventive. Science is a living art. Anything but ordinary.

And likewise Sherlock Homes is no ordinary scientist.

-

Working overtime, John becomes lost in his memory. The clinic is quiet. The windows and hallways are dark except for the emergency lights. The patients lie soundless between the sheets. An injured young man sleeps in every bed. They are a collection of broken legs and arms and ribs and shattered minds and youths. They are torn by the screams of gunfire and the taste of dust and blood and left tattered dying on starched hospital sheets. John feels a sad kinship with them.

They are friends with Death, too.

Memories cling to John with sticky fingers, like sleep just before dawn. They are patterned and predictable, a broken black and white film reel from centuries ago, dusty and spotted. Always the same. As he has done a thousand times before, up late at night in the clinic watching patients, before his waking eyes he sees himself wandering through the streets of London to buy a newspaper the first morning after his return. He is oblivious to the gunfire that sears and crackles like water in a pan of hot oil. Halfway to the news kiosk, a soldier trips across his path. He is bleeding from the ear. A few drops spatter nearby on the pavement. Scattered gems. John buys the paper. He unfurls it with trembling fingers. Little news from the front.

He spares a few pounds for a coffee. The barista stares. She has not seen real mint coins for a long time and ogles at the weight of the cool metal in her palm. She had her pen poised to mark off the ration booklet and now hides it away in her breast pocket in embarrassment. She hands him his coffee. John thanks her sympathetically and wanders back onto the streets.

Nearly a decade since the United Kingdom began the war and finally the fighting has reached her heart. Bullets sing. The bright and frightened shouts of soldiers color the grey stone buildings and stain the faces of every citizen. John even spots Death lurking in an alleyway behind an enemy barricade of sandbags and barbed wire. He sighs. Are they not too modern for such materials nowadays? He wonders where the chrome and the refined artillery have gone. Probably to the same place as the economy. Another sigh. He sips resignedly at his coffee.

Nobody has yet dared to call it World War Three and he supposes that they never will. Perhaps if the United States were to come to their assistance the nickname would catch. But true to the character history has painted, the Americans want nothing to do with the new European front. Granted, Britain does not stand alone – the smaller European countries are eager to raise arms at her side, as is a good portion of Africa and the Middle East – but the combined might of France and Germany is considerable and they seem to gain more allies with each passing day.

The fighting broke into London and it was only a reminder of the threat that loomed like a bruise on the horizon. Defeat. An unfamiliar taste. They can all smell it in the air. The military must be growing desperate. John drains his coffee. He cannot bring himself to care. He will continue to heal what injuries he can and after that he promises nothing. The war has left him blank. He can do very little but accept what life may bring. He chucks the empty coffee cup into a nearby rubbish bin.

He is not unacquainted with London, but the city seems foreign to him. The grey faces of her buildings and shops are as empty and unrecognizable as those of the citizens who skitter along the streets as if shortcuts and alleyways will shelter them from bullets and mines. The barricades and the twinkling fires strip the city of her familiar personality. She loses her grandeur in the glimpses of uniforms and the murmurs of French and German that fall onto the pavement and shatter like shards of glass. And yet one can see the remnants of pride in the immaculate hedges of her parks and the clean walls of Buckingham Palace, for the government keeps her well even as chaos burns in her heart.

It occurs to John that he is going nowhere. He turns back to the clinic. The clouds threaten to rain but for the moment only spill silver light through the streets. His cellphone sings. New patients; he is needed. He replies that he’ll be back in a minute. He is glad for the escape. The unfamiliarity is unsettling. But the simple white walls of the clinic are easy to learn.

He reckons that soon he will know them by heart.

The memory shatters with a crackling groan, like breaking glass. The splinters of sound scatter glittering into the dark; they dig into his skin. At first John thinks he has imagined it. The onomatopoeia of snapping from a reverie rings in his ears. Then the groan comes again and he realizes that the little girl is crying out for him. He rushes from the pool of light cast by his desk lamp and crouches in the cool grey shadow that clings to the feet of the infirmary cots. The girl is caught between sleeping and waking and her face is a slip of paper, white and dry in the dim glow of the emergency lights. She cries again. The darkness seems to swallow her voice the moment it struggles from her throat.

John touches her forehead and her eyes come open. She is frightened. Her skin is feverish. She seems to gasp for air.

“It hurts,” she whimpers. “Help me.”

John takes a moment to shoo Death from the foot of the bed – _she is young, there is nothing for you here, go haunt the feet of that young man over there with the stomach wound, he will be gone by morning_ – and strokes her forehead again. Her brow contorts beneath the brush of the back of his knuckles. Her fingers are knotted in the sheets.

“Everything hurts.” Her teeth come down spasmodically on her lower lip. “Won’t somebody help me…please…”

John cannot bear it. As he presses the needle into the slender blue vein at the junction of her elbow he wonders how long it has been since he was last compelled to overuse the cool syringes of morphine. He pushes down and she cries out in pain. He apologizes again and again. But he cannot stop until her jaw slackens and she sinks back into the pillows with a sigh. Her face is no longer a slip of paper but rather a puddle of milk. He touches her cheek and rises with a grunt of pain; the leg still worries him.

He steps towards the glow of his desk lamp and nearly drops the empty syringe. A figure has materialized from the darkness behind him. It ghosts silently to the edge of the mattress and stares down at the little girl, sleeping at peace under the drugs. For a moment John thinks that Death has crafted a new form, and he tries to frighten him from the bed again. What business has he trifling with a child when he can have his pick of fine young men? What business at all? The girl is not ready but the soldiers are ripe with lead and blood.

At first John is passionately angry. Then he gets a better glimpse of the pale alien face, of the dart and glitter of sharp eyes like colored marbles. He tastes warmth and life. The anger drains away. An instant of silence.

“Visiting hours are over,” says John. The intruder is a man. He is wearing a black suit. It must be satin otherwise it would not gleam in the dark as it does. Hard eyes again comparable to chips of glass. Not a trace of fear. The strange contours of his mouth bend and contort. There exists no word to describe his expression.

“So are working hours.” His voice is smooth and human. Off to the side Death is having himself a good laugh. To think that John mistook this petty burglar for his most intimate companion! John flushes and hisses to hush between his front teeth. The cackles subside. He turns back to the intruder.

“I fear that I will have to ask you to leave,” he says evenly. The intruder meets his gaze.

“I fear that I myself would prefer that you not do so,” he replies creamily.

The voice has shifted from human to surreal. John raises a brow at such temerity, but he is strangely calm. The man does not frighten him. In fact, he exudes an infectious cool. John smiles pleasantly. He will file the police report later. He contentedly explains that he is a doctor. The glass eyes crackle.

And then at once all the lights in the clinic explode to life. For a moment John thinks that the intruder did this – he was so ethereal in the dark, what with the black satin suit and the strange mouth and silken voice, that the idea does not seem irrational – but he turns and sees another man poised at the light switch. The terror gripping his throat vanishes. Beside him, the intruder gives a sigh.

“Holmes!” shrieks the man at the light switch. “This is illegal!”

Another sigh accompanies the arrival of a young woman who trips to a halt with her medical coat expanding around her like the awkward wings of a fledgling.

“You said not to worry!” she gasps. “You said it was nothing!”

For a long moment the sound of her breathing reigns.

“It isn’t anything,” replies the intruder at long last. His gaze flickers to the sleeping girl. “Personal curiosity.” 

The woman slumps in relief, but the other man does not seem pacified. He advances, takes a fistful of the black satin suit, gives a shake. Even gnashes his teeth. No one seems to notice John.

“You’re a madman, then,” he seethes. “Putting this whole thing on the line just because you want a sodding…” He searches for the word and seems to find no luck. He gives a growl to compensate. “Just imagine the hell it would be if you were reported and something got out! Lestrade will have you when we’re through, Holmes. I’ll see to it myself.”

Holmes does not seem impressed. His upper lip curls in disgust and he gingerly plucks the other man’s hand from his lapel.

“Recall that I work for the government itself, Anderson.” He wipes his hand on his trousers. “So do you, in case you’ve forgotten. They’re well aware of our activities. So do forgive me for not quite cowering before such a threat.”

The woman giggles behind her hand and the man flushes with anger. His jaw shifts visibly.

“Of course the government bloody knows,” he hisses. “I’m talking about the people, Holmes.”

At this, Holmes looks up with warning in his eyes. Anderson doesn’t notice.

“Just imagine if they knew…think about the newspapers, the protests, just picture the fucking humanitarian groups! What would the United Nations say, the President?”

The warning is replaced by panic that goes unheeded.

“Honestly Sherlock,” continues Anderson, “you don’t just go dropping the word biological war - ”

“Anderson!” The name rings in the silence like a crystal champagne flute struck with a silver spoon. The sound is fragile and tenuous. It stretches and ripples. A few patients shift in their beds. To their right a young man groans softly. The veil of sleep begins to evaporate. Sherlock takes a step forwards. His chest is heaving. For a moment his eyes rest on John. Then they focus on nothing at all.

“I think you’ve said too much.”

-

Daylight renders Sherlock no less ethereal, and John is of half a mind to believe that he dreamt up the night before and is still lost somewhere in fog of sleep and brilliant visions of surreal men materializing from the darkness to shout at one another and drop rumors of worldwide crisis as easily as they might were they catching up over coffee. But John is awake. John is awake and Sherlock floats through the clinic like a pale-skinned shadow. The lapels of his black suit blazer seem sharp enough to draw blood. Even from a distance his eyes glitter. John watches him warily through the window of his office.

The soft chatter of the clinic fills the air. The whir of the machines, the fluttering rise and fall of the nurses chattering, the low hum of exhausted conversation amongst the patients. Wounded soldiers joke and laugh with a shattering grimness. John knows the routine well. But today he is not listening. His pen drops to rest beside his paperwork. Sherlock stops a nurse and speaks with her for a moment before she shakes her head and brushes past. Then Sherlock glances up. His eyes land on John and the cold chips of glass crackle to life.

John picks up his pen and is absorbed in his paperwork when the knock comes. Four punctuating raps. Sharp knuckles. He stands up and takes great pains to move slowly. At long last he opens the door and smiles pleasantly. 

“How may I help you?”

Sherlock frowns and snatches his wrist. “Take me to her.”

His fingers are cold and John finds himself halfway across the clinic before his breath returns. They bob and weave quickly between the mattresses. Sherlock says nothing. In fact, he does not so much as look back over his shoulder while John stumbles over his own feet and tries to find the words to protest. Sherlock does not even seem to feel the need to ask for directions. Soon they are standing at the foot of the bed where the little girl is slipping between sleeping and waking. Her fever still rages. Her lips are dry and her breath whistles painstakingly between them. 

Sherlock drops John’s wrist and bends over the mattress. He presses his hand to her forehead. He takes her pulse. His brow crinkles. His eyes glint. Cold and frosted, and he drops his index finger to his lower lip and drums and drums. A steady rhythm. Like a heartbeat. Thought. Thinking. He is thinking. John watches. He finds himself capable of nothing more. 

“Run another blood test,” murmurs Sherlock at long last, and it is only then that John remembers his authority and threatens to file the police report. Sherlock laughs and points towards the sign regarding visiting hours. John bristles.

“Funny, but you don’t look much like a member of the family to me.” He crosses his arms. “I was generous last night. This is an army clinic. You can’t be here. Leave.”

Sherlock smiles tolerantly and draws a badge from his pocket with a flourish. John swallows. Research department. Royal. During the day he can be wherever he very well pleases. Sherlock chuckles. Doubtless he can see the realization play out on John’s expression.

“I do fear that you and I will have to become rather acquainted with one another.” His voice takes on that same surreal tone as before. “Not only am I considerably compelled by…personal curiosity, was that how I put it? I do believe so. But I digress; not only am I considerably compelled by personal curiosity…” He smiles indulgently and curls one hand around the rail of the bed. “To keep a close eye on this little one, but…well, Mr. Watson, though by no fault of your own, you have been rendered somewhat privy to a matter best kept unknown.” He sighs. “By the way, do forgive Anderson. I fear there is no help for him.” Suddenly his eyes are sparkling and it all has quite an effect on his face, playing off the sharp angles impishly. He looks almost childlike. John thinks it terribly strange.

“Come to think of it, don’t forgive him.” Sherlock smirks. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

John blinks and shakes his head. “If you’re referring to that rubbish about…” He pauses. “Well, I’m not even quite sure what it was about myself. Something about humanitarian groups and biology. It’s truly all a load of rot to me.” He is lying, but only a little. “As you can see, I’m not much of a threat.” He shrugs. “No need to waste energy. Nothing but a regular old army doctor here, after all.”

Sherlock gazes at him for a long moment. John does not shy away even though his heart stutters beneath such unyielding concentration. An eternity seems to pass. Sherlock breaks away. He smiles slowly and shakes his head.

“Unfortunately for your sake, my dear Watson,” he replies, “you left that position behind the moment you brought in this little girl.”

He smiles. Already John has learned to be wary of his smile.

“Congratulations on the promotion.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baker Street is very different from Sherlock Holmes. For one thing, John feels at home.

John can still hear his voice. Were he able to tear it from his ears with his fingernails he would have done so long ago. The pain would not have mattered, and he would not have cared had his fingers come away brilliant with his own blood. But it has sunk in too deeply, and now he cannot rip it away. The thin rattle from beneath the twisted grey sheets. The sound parched and soaked at the same time. The pull of grey skin over thin bones. The cry. And John can do nothing.

He can hear and see it plainly. They bring the child inside bent between their arms like a stick broken at the middle. His limps swing limp and bloodstained. He is still breathing. But the sound whistles. They take him to John. They know that John is soft. A faceless official spots them and darts to the side of the bed.

“With all due respect, doctor,” he says, his arm darting out, trying to block John from nestling the boy into the sheets. He is American. “See here, he’s one of the enemy, and what’s more, he can’t be much older than fourteen.”

John can only stare at him. Eventually he shifts in discomfort. His eyes flicker to the boy. They rest on his contorted expression, on the blood that laminates his skin. Hesitation. John has had enough. He pushes the official aside and cradles the boy’s head in the pillow. He feels sick as it occurs to him that fourteen was an overstatement. Perhaps it is only an effect of the fragility that comes from the bloodstains and the helpless rattle of his breathing, but John thinks that the child cannot be more than eleven. Even ten.

The official sinks back into the chaos of the infirmary.

Morphine. A fresh supply came not a few days ago. John has some difficulty finding a vein beneath the blood and dust and sweat, but eventually he can press the needle into the skin. He pushes down on the syringe with his thumb. The boy winces and then his face falls slack again. John needs a sponge. He calls a nurse. She looks at him doubtfully, but does as he asks, and soon beads of water runs down the boy’s forehead, tiny rivulets that gradually carve away the mask of filth and blood. He has been wounded in so many places that John dares not count. He can only hope to make him comfortable.

Once the grime has been washed away, the bruises beneath his skin reveal themselves like strange, grotesque flowers in bloom. His lips are dry and John fetches a new sponge, lets a few drops slide into his mouth. His tongue darts out to lap them away, and then he is still again, except for the terrible wet and dry rattle of his breathing. The drugs slacken his jaw.

Night falls and the infirmary quiets. The soldiers either drop into sleep or groan more softly out of fear that they might wake their companions and suffer their resentment. In their white dresses and caps, the nurses seem to be ghosts floating between mattresses that are more like tombstones. John winces at the grim comparison. He had not meant for it to come to his mind. He rubs at his eyes as if doing so might erase the thought.

He is bent over in a chair beside the dying boy. The effect of the painkiller has begun to wear away already, but John knows that he should not give him more until morning. The rhythm of the boy’s breathing steadily escalates. He is growing more frantic. But he is still asleep. The pain must be infringing on his dreams. John buries his head in his hands. He is sticky with sweat and exhaustion and the dust of the desert that never seems to leave the skin completely.

Death has been so kind as to accompany him in his vigil. He stands in a thick cloak of silence and taps his chin with one slender finger. He is not excited, because this death is too obvious. He knows it will not be long before he can welcome the boy into the dark comfort of his embrace. He prefers theatrics. Tragedy. He adores bitter flavors and watches John brew tea with a great deal of fascination.

The night is deep and black when the last of the morphine exhausts itself and the boy snaps awake with a pitiful cry. John clenches his teeth. He wants him to die. It would be kinder. How long it will take naturally – well, not very long, but the pain must be unfathomable. Oh, how he wants him to die.

But he does not die for three more hours, and he cries for help with his last breath.

“More,” he sobs in broken English. He seems to know his surroundings enough to understand who John is. “More, sir, you are a doctor, please, more. Make it stop. _Bas._ Make it stop.”

John does not lift his face from his hands. The boy drifts between languages. He pleads in English and prays in Arabic. John would much rather it were the other way around. He recognizes certain prayers. It hits him that the boy knows he will die. He has abandoned hope. Death leans forwards in his seat. He is neither smiling nor frowning. He watches. John would not have lifted his face from his hands for the entire universe.

The boy falls silent just as dawn splits the darkness of the infirmary into a gradient of greys and black.

Death sighs and shuts his eyes.

When John finally has the strength to lift his face it is midmorning and the mattress is empty.

His ears remain full.

His chin is jerked upwards and his breath hitches, because suddenly his vision is nothing but Sherlock Holmes, whose fingers dig cold into the line of his jaw but whose eyes are colder still. They sparkle wildly. Calculating. John flinches and rips his face away. Sherlock leans back obligingly.

“What is it?”

John cups his jaw gingerly. He feels as if the imprints of Sherlock’s fingertips had been welded into his skin. “What is what?”

Sherlock sighs. “What’s troubling you?” His eyes flash warningly. “I’m curious.”

John frowns. “I don’t understand what you’re asking. Nothing.” He bends back over his paperwork. “I was thinking. Just thinking. Nothing more. You of all people should understand being lost in thought.”

Sherlock snorts. “I am never lost in thought, John; I always know my way.” He plants both hands on the desk and leans forwards. The edge of his scarf trails over the paperwork but John does not lift his gaze. “You are a dreadful liar.”

John jots down his initials in the space provided. “I’m not lying,” he replies evenly. “What reason would I have to lie to you, anyways? You can always tell.”

Sherlock chuckles. The ends of his scarf are impeding the path of John’s pen. It is quite vexing, but if John were to look up their eyes would meet and then there would be no escape.

“Of course I can always tell,” says Sherlock. “But you seem to forget that the very definition of always would imply that this situation is no exception.”

John sighs. “Come off it, Sherlock. The clinic is about to close down anyways. I’ll keep that log of her heart rate exactly as you’ve asked. You have my word. You don’t need to hover around here any longer asking personal questions when you don’t really care about the answers.”

Sherlock draws back. “But I do care.” He sounds surprised. John cannot help himself; his looks up sharply. Sherlock is gazing back at him quite seriously. His eyebrows are raised and furrow slightly at the center. The curious angles of his face seem to draw together at the touch of the lamplight.

“Tell me,” demands Sherlock. And a demand it is; he looks at John as if to not comply would be the most enormous offense imaginable. “I want to know.”

John squints, like a better focus will make sense of the entire situation. “But why?”

Sherlock blinks. The crease between his brows deepens. He lifts one hand and begins to fiddle with the cuff of his sharp black suit.

“I want to know,” he repeats. John stares at him. “I want to know. Is that not reason enough? I cannot stand not knowing things. I am curious and I cannot stand it.” He takes a step forwards with a strange light in his eyes. “Tell me.”

John sits back. “Just a memory. Nothing. It’s not important.”

Sherlock leans back on the balls of his heels. Thinking. Naturally. Silence. Then: “From the war?”

John exhales through his nose. “If you must know, yes.” He rubs his temple. “I don’t think I have other memories, not anymore.”

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment. His expression is unreadable. Finally he blinks as if snapping from a dream and his upper lip curls. “Don’t be so dramatic.” An outright sneer. “It doesn’t suit you.”

John sighs. He cannot bring himself to care. He picks up his pen and returns to his paperwork. Sherlock lingers until the lights of the clinic begin to flicker out. A nurse leans through the door to John’s office and asks whether Sherlock is coming. He nods absently. Just a minute. A pause.

“Mustn’t you be going as well, John?” Sherlock gestures vaguely to the darkening clinic. “They have a night staff.”

John shakes his head. “I have nowhere better to be.”

Sherlock pauses at the doorframe. “You mean to imply that you sleep in this place?”

John nods. Another pause.

“No wonder all your memories are from the war. You haven’t made any new ones.”

This brings John’s head up again. Sherlock blinks owlishly at him. Then he chuckles.

“So you think that I have been rather brusque. Forgive me; it is only that you seem to be quite willing to surround yourself with Death.”

The uppercase letter is audible. John looks away.

“My pension is nothing. It’s warm here and there’s food enough and I won’t be shot.” He looks at his hands. “You might be a genius but you haven’t seen the front. You don’t understand. I can’t just return to a comfortable flat and make a good salary again. Staying here is better.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Please; even _you_ don’t believe that. You know perfectly well that you could recover if you really wanted to do so. You’re just afraid to begin, because in your heart of hearts you know the truth. You don’t want to leave. You are not haunted by the war, John Watson.” He grins. “You miss it.”

John closes his eyes.

Silence.

Sherlock clears his throat.

“Old line of my brother’s, that. What a terrific arse.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “In any case, as a point of interest that relates to the subject at hand, I myself have long been in search of a flatmate. The rent has spiked in these conditions, and while my landlady is very kind, I have grown unfortunately fond of her, and hate to see her suffer financially solely on my behalf. In short, doctor, a few extra pounds would greatly soothe my guilt. In addition, I believe you should know that I find you to be an intriguing if not an entirely bearable human being.” He pauses. The bow of his lip curves and for an instant he is an impish child.

“Two Twenty One Baker Street. Of course, only if you are so inclined.”

And with that he waltzes from the room waving his right hand goodbye as though it were a cane and he a tap dancer.

-

That night John takes pains to illustrate the portrait of Sherlock Holmes as he understands thus far.

A few weeks have passed since the sick little girl first arrived in the clinic. A few weeks since Sherlock materialized at her bedside from somewhere deep in the cloak of night. A few weeks since John heard too much. And since then, Sherlock has made himself a constant presence. He stalks between the mattresses demanding information, flashing his authorization should anyone dare to refuse him. No one ever does, but rarely do they know the answers to his questions. And so after a few days he has largely taken to sitting resignedly at the girl’s bedside, jotting down notes and occasionally taking her pulse.

As promised, he and John have become rather well acquainted. It has become increasingly apparent that Sherlock is strange and often infuriating. He whines and makes absurd demands and every once in a while is seized by violently dramatic moods. He disappears for days at a time and then reappears with a new arsenal of questions balanced on the bow of his lips. But he is certainly interesting. In fact the only predictable thing about him is the black satin suit that he wears tailored as sharply as his scorn.

But every so often he seems to condescend far enough to take coffee with John in the office. He can usually bully a nurse into procuring the stuff – he has a curious effect of them, something reminiscent of a cold breeze blowing through a flock of doves – in a tall mug, just as he likes: black, with two sugars. He then proceeds to march smartly into John’s office, take an authoritative seat before his desk, and pepper him with questions. Usually these are related to medicine. Nearly as often they have to do with the little girl.

What does John know of the neurological system, lymph nodes, the heightened sensitivity of nerve endings?

How long did she sleep the night before, was she restless, and did she seat the vanilla pudding that silly old nurse left out for her the other day?

John answers as best he can.

Occasionally, however, they might digress. Sherlock has taken to dropping sly prompts about the war. He has a strange fascination with the macabre. Murders and suicides bring a gleam into his eyes that brightens whenever John mentions a mysterious death or a missing soldier.

“I might have been a detective,” drawls Sherlock as an explanation. He drums on his lower lip with his index and middle fingers. A habit; perhaps it embodies the rhythm of his thought. “Had I not been manipulated into running errands for the government before I could protest, that is.”

Manipulated? Sherlock gives a terrific roll of the eyes, as is quickly becoming evident that only he can give. He mumbles something about an elder brother. His upper lip curls, so John forgets the subject.

Over the weeks their conversations become more frequent. John is not as unsettled by Sherlock as others seem to be. For all his oddities, or more likely because of them, he is a distraction. He does not let John dwell on anything for too long. Even sitting still with his chin balanced on his hands as if halfway through a prayer, he darts ahead at an impossible pace.

John still does not know his destination, of course. He has hinted and Sherlock has dodged with practiced ease. It is clear that he does not want to explain his reason for haunting the clinic. He will not tell why he obsesses over even the most minute changes in the little girl. Not why his thumb is always at her wrist seeking her pulse. Not why he tracks what she eats and drinks and every syllable that she mumbles in her sleep. Not why he forces John to keep meticulous journals on her progress. But John cannot be bothered to press him. He chooses to accept uncertainty.

In any case, John becomes immersed in his memories less and less frequently. He no longer has the time to chat with Death; these days he is too busy entertaining speeding, flying, brilliant audiences with Sherlock. His life feels flooded all of a sudden. His blood sings and his mind races. But still he cannot keep up with Sherlock Holmes.

And so John considers the proposal carefully.

In any other situation, even just a week ago, he would have dismissed the idea. Too much. Too many problems. Memories that jolt awake shattering the darkness. Blood on his hands swirling pink down the drain when he still hasn’t turned on the water. Scars twisting from the junction of his neck and collarbone digging knurled fingers down beneath his skin to contort his lungs and ribs. The war. The war. The war. John Watson is not suited to live with anyone, not anymore.

But neither is Sherlock Holmes.

The next day when he materializes at the side of the bed just before dawn, John sets down his clipboard and tells him that perhaps something might be arranged.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“I play the violin,” he says, “quite often before sunrise.”

John smiles grimly. “I wake up screaming bloody murder, always before sunrise.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes – “Oh, don’t be so dramatic; it doesn’t suit you,” – but he looks impressed.

John will come and have a look tomorrow. 

-

Baker Street strikes a startling juxtaposition with Sherlock Holmes. First and foremost, John steps into the flat and feels comfortable. It is late afternoon, and the foyer is soft and rainy. In between the rays of sunshine that cut through the curtains wink motes of dust like fragments of diamond. The light is a gauzy silver shroud hung over the walls and furniture, but the flat is far from lifeless. Rather, the room seems to breathe. The gentle respiration of the lumpy couch and the quiet exhale of the armchairs and the rhythm of the lungs of the bookcases mingle and fill the air. John inhales and tastes dust, parchment, a trace of tobacco, and the rich flavor of old wood finishing. Sherlock steps inside after him. Despite his sharp suit and glittering eyes, he seems to melt into the peeling wallpaper. He is home.

He goes to the window and draws back the curtains. The afternoon spills into the flat. Baker Street is relatively quiet, for the most part unoccupied by troops and gunfire. A car horn cries softly in the distance. There is little other sound. John exhales. He steps forwards and runs a hand the back of one of the armchairs. Sherlock turns from the window. He looks curious. Observant. Like always. John gets the impression that he cannot help it. Thinking, that is. The light plays tricks over his face. John meets his eyes.

“Won’t I be getting a tour?”

Sherlock surrenders a crooked smile and points down the hallway.

The kitchen is small and cluttered, but John believes that is how a kitchen ought to be. A set of slender glass test tubes sits on the counter. There are a few unwashed mugs in the sink. The kettle rests on the backburner of the stove with its metal hide still gleaming from lack of use. Sherlock walks a few circles in the middle of the floor, bangs a couple of cabinets, makes a fuss about the refrigerator. John tries not to smile. It is so obvious that he never uses this room.

They leave the kitchen and Sherlock gestures down a short hallway that leads to his own bedroom. His lip curls in vague disgust and John gets the feeling that he doesn’t sleep very often. Doesn’t seem to be the type. Probably thinks the whole process to be a waste. Why sleep when he could be thinking. Deducing. Making discoveries. It doesn’t bother John. Each to their own. And besides, he doesn’t like sleeping much, either. Not these days, at least.

And so he contentedly follows Sherlock back through the living room and up a small staircase. Sherlock opens a door and beckons him inside with a sweep of the arm. The bedroom is not large, but it looks comfortable. Light from the far window puddles in the wrinkles in the sheets on the bed. They have not been used for years and are tired and grey, covered with a fine coat of dust.

There is a nightstand and a lamp, a closet, plus an armoire and a bookcase poised as silent sentinels at the door. There is a small bathroom off to the side. The wood floors are cool. Unthinkingly, John goes to the edge of the bed and sits down. The mattress gives with a sigh of relief. He presses his palm into the sheets. Sherlock watches him. Sherlock always watches him. Sherlock watches everyone and everything. But do his eyes not come to rest on John a little more frequently?

John is struck by a strange impulse.

“Say…” His voice seems to shatter something in the air. He does not know what, but the shards shower down between them like broken glass. Sherlock raises a brow. His hand is still on the doorknob.

“The violin.” John looks up at him. “You said you played the violin.”

A nod. Sherlock’s expression is blank, but for some reason, John smiles reassuringly.

“Won’t you play something for me?”

-

Sherlock Holmes is fluid. His eyes close and his mouth slackens out of its strange forced mold and his body melts. The sharp edges of his suit fade. His wrist bends and dips and arches to the tempo. Lean ribbons of notes. Strong and tenuous. They stretch thin and curl together. Never breaking. Hush now. Pianissimo. Then crescendo to nothing. It is Vivaldi sobbing from the delicate arc of the bow. Winter. Cold and tentative, and yet Sherlock warms to the sound, or perhaps the sound to Sherlock, if that were possible. Is it? John doesn’t know. He can only sit enraptured as the music wraps around him and binds his hands and feet and sets his heart to beating madly as if trying to start a duet.

What does he know? Nothing.

The music fades. Sherlock lifts his chin. He sets the violin on the windowsill.

“I only played the first few measures.”

And with that, the fluidity is gone. His eyes glitter again. Curiosity. The buzzing buzzing buzzing of wanting to know more, more, impossibly much. It must be so maddening. Never resting. Thinking. Thinking. The desperate pursuit of thought paused for a few moments between the frosty chords.

John applauds.

-

He will move what little he has from the clinic the following morning. He is in no hurry and it is too late anyhow. They dallied with the violin and the tea –

And was it strange to take tea with Sherlock Holmes? Perhaps. But John wasn’t thinking about that at the time. They sat cramped at the kitchen table with the glimmering test tubes between them and drank from chipped mugs. The cupboards were bare and all Sherlock kept in his refrigerator was a small jar of martini olives (for what cocktail parties, John had laughed, and Sherlock had chuckled softly, and then they had both realized with a jolt of surprise that they must look something like two friends) so despite the murky green color they ate them. Admittedly it was a strange combination because of course ordinary tea seemed out of place with the olives. But all in all, it tasted alright. In fact the conversation (music, medicine, different types of tobacco, anything that came to mind) lent the whole affair a pleasant flavor.

\- and in any case it is no longer safe to wander the streets. There is no law, not yet, but rather an implicit curfew. Doors lock. Lights burn all night. Even in their sleep the citizens of London keep vigil for the crackle of gunshots, the low groan of a grenade, the dull shout of a soldier, dying or running or exalting his victory, who knows? Nobody wants to anyways.

At around half past six the landlady marches into the flat. She is an aged woman but the line of her mouth is strong and proud. John introduces himself. She smiles and shakes his hand and prattles on about how lovely it is to finally meet him. Finally? But before John can ask she jams her hands on her hips and declares that he and Sherlock must be very hungry. In the end they have no choice but to agree and five minutes see them bundled into a cab to dinner.

The drive isn’t long, but Sherlock pays the whole fare. John is unsure of how to react to this. In the end he says nothing. The restaurant is small and its windows cast a friendly glow onto the sidewalk. It forms a striking juxtaposition with the shadows of the fires that crackle from the alleyways and the occasional fountain of light that spurts up from somewhere in the distance: shells exploding.

They hurry inside.

John is stunned to see that the owner knows Sherlock. He booms and claps him on the shoulder, and ushers them over to a choice table in a secluded corner. He even deposits a little candle in the center of the red checked cloth. John shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair. Sherlock straightens his cuffs and rests his chin atop the steeple shape he makes with his fingers.

The menu is Italian. Nothing special. John finds it comforting, even though pictures of the food are printed beside the descriptions. For his part, Sherlock opens the menu, flips through it, and shuts it again. John gets a beer. Nothing for Sherlock. In the end John orders ravioli and Sherlock chicken parmesan, although he does so with a sort of begrudging air about him. When the food comes, he does not so much as glance at his fork. John raises an eyebrow.

“Eating is dull,” explains Sherlock. John chews and swallows deliberately.

“Maybe to you. But it’s necessary, isn’t it?” He shrugs and takes another bite, speaking around his fork. “Just like sleeping and breathing.”

Sherlock makes a small, impossibly frustrated noise from the back of his throat. “Boring.”

John laughs. Sherlock stares at him. John shakes his head.

“You’re just funny,” he explains feebly. “Most people don’t even think about that, breathing, whether it’s boring or not.”

That upper lip curls again, the tiniest movement to express the greatest disdain. “I know we have only been acquainted for several weeks, but nevertheless I am rather far from _most people_ , wouldn’t you say?”

John chuckles. “I would indeed.” He takes a sip of his beer. “The furthest, I might venture.”

Sherlock forms the steeple shape with his fingers again. “Perhaps.”

Silence falls for a moment. John sets down his fork and gestures at the untouched plate in front of Sherlock.

“Eat. You’re pale.”

Sherlock looks at him dubiously. “I’ll always be pale.” But he takes up his knife and fork and cuts into the chicken. The measured flicker of his delicate fingers over the utensils gives John the odd suggestion of a surgeon at his scalpel. Finally Sherlock puts the fork into his mouth and chews. He swallows and his entire throat seizes with the movement. John follows with his gaze. Sherlock tilts his head to the side expectantly.

“Thank you,” says John obligingly. He struggles to keep the laughter from his voice.

“Boring,” mumbles Sherlock.

“Maybe,” concedes John. “But necessary. Or at least according to those hateful creatures whom you have dubbed _most people_ , that is.”

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment. The candlelight forms puddles of gold in his eyes and hollows the arc of his cheekbones. He purses his lips, flexes his fingers so that the steeple bends and contorts.

“You’re rather far from _most people_ , yourself, John.” For a moment his gaze flickers away. “Just in case you were wondering.”

The enormity of the compliment only occurs to John as the waiter brings their bill. Sherlock immediately snatches it from across the table. John opens his mouth. Sherlock glares.

“Your pension is nothing, you’ve said so yourself.” He draws a card from his pocket with a sharp flourish. “Do allow me this one ordinary courtesy.”

And with that, he hands off the check to a passing waiter. John flounders about for a while until he is rescued by the owner, who materializes at their table beaming and clasping his hands together. He is a meaty man with flapping jowls and a face creased like a wet brown paper bag. His apron is stained.

“I hope you two enjoyed your meal,” he booms, and seals one thick hand around Sherlock’s shoulder. John tries not to smile at the juxtaposition. Slender aristocratic Sherlock bending like a willow beneath the weight of this enormous flushed man. It’s ridiculous.

“It was wonderful, as always, Angelo,” says Sherlock mildly. He does not even shake off the hand on his shoulder. John is impressed. Angelo laughs for no apparent reason and shoots a wink at him.

“Quite a handsome date you’ve got there,” he grins. Sherlock sighs. John laughs uncomfortably and shakes his head.

“I’m not his date,” he says, as amiably as possible, “just a colleague.”

Angelo rolls his eyes. “Joking, joking, of course.” He waves a hand towards Sherlock. “The man is married to his bloody work, so don’t go getting your hopes up, sweetheart.” Yet another wink. “Thanks for stopping by, you two. Hope to see you again.”

And with that he sinks back into the grimy glow of the restaurant. John gazes warily after him. Sherlock meets his gaze and raises an eyebrow. They are silent for a long moment. John snorts. Sherlock’s upper lip trembles. And then they both dissolve into helpless laughter.

-

Neither of them feels like going back to the flat. As they have already established, sleep is boring. They might as well be working, so they manage to catch another cab to the clinic. On the way they pass through some of the worst combat zones. Every few seconds the cab is flooded with the eerie light of a shell flowering into the sky and the night around them is ruptured by the spatter of gunfire. John cannot help himself. He stares out the window. He knows Sherlock is watching him.

Halfway there, an enormous explosion rattles the streets. The cab stalls for a moment. The wash of light does not fade for a few seconds. John counts his heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Four. Thudding in his mouth. Then darkness falls. Not long afterwards, the flicker of a searchlight bathes the streets. John jumps, unsettled. In the light he sees Death beside him in the cab, just where Sherlock was sitting. His face is a white glimmer in the dark and he drums his bony fingers on the window. John follows his gaze.

A soldier stumbles along the sidewalk. Even in the dim light – now only the fires glow from the yawning mouths of the alleyways – you can see blood seeping from where his fingers clutch at his arm. It drips dark onto the pavement. His mouth sags open but the glass of the window stops his cries. John is impossibly grateful. Death sighs in disappointment. The boy will live. John shuts his eyes as the cab rumbles to life again. When he has the strength to open his eyes again, Death is gone and Sherlock is watching him.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s only natural. It is a bothersome sight for most people, but for you…well.” He shifts and looks out the window. His voice drops. “Do allow me to reiterate. You are so very far from _most people_ , John.”

John swallows. “Thank you.” His pulse thuds. Adrenalin from the explosions? Perhaps. “Thank you, truly. I get the feeling that…” He pauses. “That you don’t say that very often.”

Sherlock nods. “I don’t.” One corner of his mouth twitches. “Unless it’s true. And it is. I should know. I can read you like a book, after all.” He pauses. “I know that you don’t like to sleep because the war troubles you. And I know that you don’t turn away in spite of all that, because you need the war. I know that you eat only because you have to. I know that you breathe, however, because you still can. You see it all as a privilege, a gift. But you hate it. Such an interesting viewpoint.” He shifts again, laces his fingers together on his knee. “And besides, you’ve started to see him, too.”

John’s breath hitches. “Who?”

But then they have pulled up to the clinic and Sherlock is springing from the cab. He pays again. John does not protest. He does not even think about it. The words ring too loudly in his mind. They prohibit all other thought. Surely Sherlock cannot mean that. John shakes his head. Surely not.

But who?

He intends to force Sherlock into explaining. He is not sure how this might be possible, but nevertheless he fully intends to do it. He tries to plan. Words fill his mouth. But then they step into the clinic. Then they step into the clinic. Then they step into the clinic, and the little girl is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bas_ means _enough_.
> 
> Changes in lines and speakers from the actual canon are purposeful.
> 
> Sherlock plays _Winter_ from the piece _The Four Seasons_ by the famous composer Vivaldi.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're not quite normal, and it's alright.

The little girl is dead. Her body is still warm. The little girl is dead and her body is still warm. It is her wrist. Her wrist is warm in the circle of his index finger and thumb. Warm but silent. The song of her pulse has ended but the last chord still echoes through her body. Warmth in the beat of the blood. Warmth in the slowing tempo. Warmth in the rhythm through her veins. The metronome clicks to a stop. They were the first to hear. She was usually so still that the nurses would not give a second thought if her bed were to fall silent.

Sherlock drops her wrist. John is gripping the railing of the bed. His face is expressionless except for where his mouth draws down faintly at the corners. The slightest crease spells the depth of his horror. Otherwise he is empty. Devoid. But then the blank sheet of paper that is his face crumples and straightens again with a thousand new wrinkles, and the emptiness melts into confusion. Sherlock watches as John begins to suck on his lower lip. He seems human again. Sherlock gives a silent sigh of relief, because to him, that much seems to be only John’s job. Being human and such, that is. John is soft. Softer than he is, at least. Soft enough to allow confusion to melt his face.

All this has happened in the space of an instant, but one must keep in mind that there are centuries of tiny observations catalogued in the mind of a genius.

“It can’t be,” sighs John. Sherlock is unimpressed, because he has already seen John submit to reality. He saw the break in his expression, and now he is staring into the clumsy repair job. The human face is an accumulation of scars. And who was it that once said that the eyes were the window to the soul? Irrelevant. The face is the portrait of the heart. For most people, that is. And in this case John falls into that category. But that’s alright. So does Sherlock, to an extent. So does everyone. And he can hardly fault John for being a part of _everyone_.

John kneads his forehead with one hand.

“It can’t be,” he repeats. “It can’t be; good God, just this morning she was…”

“Just this morning,” interrupts Sherlock glassily. “She was mad with pain and fever. Just this morning, she was…” He swallows. Up until this point his observations have blocked the fear that has been rising in his throat. Now terror is obstructing his voice. He swallows again. “She was seized by spasms, then more pain, then morphine, if you don’t recall, doctor.”

Fear is an infection, Sherlock considers in moderate revulsion as John turns to him with an infinite expression in his eyes, although of what emotion Sherlock is not sure. John is sad. Obviously. But his face is capable of so much at one time. Sherlock theorizes that John has never restricted himself, so he has developed a way to moderate his heart. Emotions spill and swirl together at the corners of his eyes and the bow of his lips, at the slope of his nose and the tiny dip of his chin, but they are not too bright, and the colors are tasteful. The shading is nice, too; a little stronger where the light hits, softer where subtlety is wanting. Fine work. Not that of a master, no. The canvas is too torn and weary. But it is fine work nevertheless.

And besides, were Sherlock to open his own face as a canvas, the result would be so brilliant as to burn the eyes, and nobody would dare to take a second glance.

But, he reasons with himself, he is only digressing in the vain hope of distracting himself. At some point he will have to acknowledge the panic that has begun to twist itself into his ribs. The little girl is dead. The little girl is dead and she died with the symptoms. The symptoms, the very symptoms. Sherlock cannot deny it. There can be no mistaking them. The little girl is dead and she died with the symptoms and John is standing at her bedside with that infinite expression in his eyes and it is all Sherlock can manage to sputter facts like a broken faucet and construct silly analogies about painting and emotions spelled out in eyes and cheekbones and lips.

“You look surprised,” he observes. John glances at him but shakes his head.

“I’m going to call for a nurse,” he says. “She’ll be taken to the morgue. She has no parents or guardians as far as we know, so there’s nobody to tell, nobody to grieve. It’ll be quick. I’m at least glad for that.” He pauses in turning from the bedside. He bites down on his lower lip and his eyes flicker. Then he makes to reach down and stroke the hair from the girl’s sickly pale forehead one last time.

Fear.

Unthinkingly, Sherlock catches his wrist halfway there. John stares at him. Sherlock’s mind screeches. He wants to justify himself. He is suddenly a child caught with his fingers bleeding because he broke the glass vase that mummy always treasured. The child bursts into tears. It was the fear. The fear made him do it.

“No,” says Sherlock, too sharply. “No, don’t.”

His thumb has trapped John’s pulse, and it screams in panic. Panic must be the explanation. It must be set free. Yes, panic. No other possibility but panic. That is why it beats so frantically. Sherlock drops his wrist. His own blood rushes. 

“I need her for research,” he explains frostily. He is not really lying. He does need her. But that is not why he trapped John’s pulse. “I have a permit. I need her for research.”

He cannot say why it hurts when John looks at him in disappointment.

“Alright.” He rubs at his temple. “In any case, there will be paperwork. All sorts of such rubbish. I’ll get to work on that right now. Don’t worry, Sherlock.” He turns. His face is hidden from view. “You’ll get her in one piece, I promise. I would hate to get in the way of…whatever. Whatever it is. Doesn’t matter.” His shoulders bend with the weight of a sigh. “You have my word.”

And he begins to turn away. Sherlock cannot stand it. The look in his eyes. Almost betrayed but not surprised. Of course, you really are frozen. Nothing more than a man of science. Forgive me for thinking otherwise. I won’t forget it again. It’s my job to be human so don’t you worry yourself. Sherlock struggles to reason with the wild spinning of his mind. He is being ridiculous. Of course John has not even taken the time to form such opinions. Nobody notices what Sherlock notices.

“No, John, wait.” He takes a step forwards. John stops. “I’m sorry.”

John stares. Sherlock swallows.

“For being…” Fear. Fear like an infection. One mustn’t go near her. One might catch it, too. “For being so brusque about it, that is. I forget that you are no less prey to sentiment than any of these damn tottering nurses…feeding her pudding, why I..!”

He digs a hand into his hair. Panic is clouding his mind. Such inconvenience.

“I really do need her,” he emphasizes rather feebly. “I can’t…look, I can’t say why, not yet at least. I wish I could. But it’s very important, you see. I’m sorry. I know that this rubs you the wrong way, that it somehow goes against your morals. Oh, don’t look at me like that!” He tugs on the lock of hair between his thumb and index finger. “I am sorry.”

Silence, and then John sighs.

“Alright.” He puts his hands on his hips. “I believe you are. Thanks, anyways. I’ll go get somebody right now and put this out of my mind.” He glances up and his eyes are gentler. “Good luck with whatever t is that you’re doing, I suppose.”

Sherlock watches as he weaves between the beds and disappears down the hallway. He is going to the morgue. Sherlock glances down at the still face of the little girl. Her skin is already yellowing in places. His stomach turns. Not disgust. Fear .

He’s afraid there’s no luck to be had.

-

Sherlock comes as soon as he receives the order. One does not keep the Lieutenant General Irene Adler waiting.

Most people salute when they first encounter the fox who lurks behind the British defense of London. They sway and stammer beneath the thin artful curve of her lip and the cool glitter in her eyes, and then return to their barracks to entertain astonishing fantasies regarding what is hidden beneath her green canvas uniform. She is a beautiful woman. That much Sherlock will admit. Perhaps even clever. But he never saluted. He never swayed. He never stammered. And he certainly never entertained a fantasy. Nowadays he bows, and when he returns upright there is an artful smirk balanced on his lips.

But today there is no time for ritual. He explodes through the doors and pushes past the sea of subordinates who rise clamoring for him to stop, to show some identification. The General is perched at the head of a long table like a slender green bird, pushing little pieces of painted wood over a map with an expression of vague distaste. Despite modern technology, she has always been inclined towards physical representation, and prefers paper maps and wooden regiments far above punching coordinates into a keyboard. It is a respectable if not inconvenient quality.

Sherlock does not announce himself. He says her name and wrenches the long pole from her hands, upsetting the arrangement of the little wooden pieces across the map. A few regiments land in the English Channel. Adler hisses at him, but dismisses the subordinates with a wave of her hand. They dare not question her authority and file away obediently, though they leave a trail of whispers thickening the air in their wake. Adler watches them with distaste. She turns back to Sherlock and plucks the long pole from his hands.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

He braces himself on the edge of the table. “This isn’t the headmaster’s office, Lieutenant General.” He takes an artful pause. “But rather I can only imagine that it’s infinitely worse.”

“You imagine correctly,” says Irene glassily, reflecting his smirk. “Allow me to repeat myself. Do you know why you’re here?”

He sighs. “I could take a guess or two.”

Irene reaches into the pocket of her uniform and extracts a slip of government-issued paper. “Best that we save ourselves both the time, wouldn’t you agree?” She unfolds the paper. “You know what this is.”

Sherlock lifts his chin into the air. “It’s a medical report.”

“Correct. You are so terribly clever.” She folds the paper crisply along the creases and tucks it back into her breast pocket. “Sherlock. What is the meaning of this?”

The fear that has been clutching his bones since John reached out to sweep the hair from the little girl’s forehead rears its head again. Sherlock grips the edge of the table. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Irene rolls her eyes. “Alright, at this point I’m tired of the game. The symptoms, Sherlock. Don’t they seem a bit familiar to you?”

She speaks aloud what has been silently torturing his mind all this time. Sherlock runs his hands through his hair, pressing into his temples with the balls of his palms. Only in front of Irene would he ever show such distress. She is the closest to him in intellect. Behind her lipstick and the medals pinned on her breast pocket she hides a ferocious mind. There is no choice but to respect her.

“Perhaps,” he replies tersely. He deliberates over every word. “They remind me of a little girl. I can’t remember her name. I heard about her a few weeks ago and went to take some samples, but the doctor caught me…” He stops. He does not want to talk about John. He is not sure why. Of course John should not be involved, although perhaps it is already too late for that. But it also seems like a secret, a secret which he quite jealously wants to keep. How curious.

Adler clears her throat. Sherlock apologizes and continues.

“I watched her deteriorate.” He swallows. “I cannot deny that they do seem to match.”

“I know, Sherlock.” Irene’s voice is sharp enough to draw blood. “And she exhibited them all, didn’t she?”

He nods helplessly. For the moment there is no choice but to be honest, even though it drives him to the brink of insanity with terror.

“Every single one, and in the correct sequence. She died last night. We came back and there she was. Dead. Her skin was already yellowing.”

Adler leans forwards. She balances her chin on the ball of her palm. Now she is a cat, arching her back to get a proper look at him. “We?”

Sherlock throws his hands into the air. “The doctor and I! But that hardly matters, does it?” Fear and exasperation eat at his voice like acid. He fears that soon it will be left full of holes like an old rag and his words will slip through the gaps and shatter on the ground.

Adler purses her lips. “Do you really believe it’s gotten out, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shakes his head from side to side. “I don’t know. It could just be coincidence.” He can hear the raw strain in his own voice. It’s pathetic. 

“Sherlock…” Irene stands and presses her hand to his shoulder. He wonders if he will collapse even beneath such a slight pressure. The fear seems to suck all the substance from his body. He is left a paper shell, easily crumpled, tossed away. Irene drops her voice to a croon.

“In any case, we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Oh, Sherlock…” She squeezes his shoulder. “You do always jump to conclusions…”

He shakes her away. “That’s because I’m always right!” But he does not want to corner himself and his voice softens. “I always jump to conclusions because I always know, before anyone else…” He grits his teeth. “It’s my lot in life, for better or for worse.”

Irene rolls her eyes. “Must you be so dramatic? It doesn’t suit you.” She runs a hand through his hair. “Hush, Sherlock, I can tell you’re thinking. Calm down. Try to stop for a moment. Just stop thinking.”

A tenuous moment of silence, then they both laugh harshly because they know she has asked him to achieve the impossible. She runs a hand through his hair again. Her fingers are cool and dry. Her palm curves to fit his cheek and he cannot help but lean into the touch. 

“I don’t want to believe this any more than you do,” she croons. “So to contradict myself, why don’t you think about it for a minute? How would it have gotten out?”

He bites down on his lower lip. “Well, we both know the kind of security we keep,” he begins, breathless. “A breach would be next to impossible. And into the water supply? How? It’s improbable. In all actuality, a coincidence is more feasible.” He inhales unsteadily. “A coincidence is more feasible.”

Irene pats his cheek. “There you have it. Relax. There’s still no cause for alarm. We’ll wait a few days. We’ll wait a few days, and if nothing new shows up, we’ll consider the matter finished. Can you agree to that?”

The idea is so appealing. Sherlock exhales. “Alright.” 

Irene smiles, but the expression doesn’t touch her eyes. She seems distant. “Wonderful. Now be off with you.” She picks up her slender pole and gestures to the map. She nudges at the wooden pieces that lie strewn haphazardly across the table. “As you can see, I’m enormously busy.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Of course. Forgive me.”

And so they have agreed. But he knows it is simply a matter of time. He saw the signs in the curve of her lip, the gleam of her eye. They were only speaking in code. There is no time for alarm now. Calculate first. So be it. Let her have her strategy, the medals on her breast pocket. They must make such concessions in order to understand one another. And so he leaves with the feeble excuse. But he doesn’t really believe it, not for a minute, and neither does she.

-

Sherlock finds John back at Baker Street. He is oddly gratified to see how well he fits in already. It is curious to see him perched on the sofa with a cup of tea at his side and a medical dictionary open on his lap, in his socks and shirtsleeves as if he had lived there his entire life. He instantly seems to belong. He even looks at home. Sherlock turns this over in his mind and finds it to be as mystifying as it is pleasant.

He dawdled on the way back to the flat and it is already late afternoon, almost early evening. The sun slants in through the thin curtains like tarnished brass. Rainclouds boil on the horizon, but for the meantime the sky is pale blue, touched faintly by the sunset. Sherlock hangs his coat in the hall.

“Have you eaten?” asks John when Sherlock walks into the sitting room. Sherlock stares. John speaks so easily. No discomfort. No need for any sort of obvious and painful transition from acquaintances to flat mates. They have seen death together. No longer need they heed the call for formalities, regulations, normalized social conduct. They are not normal, after all. How refreshing.

“No,” replies Sherlock smoothly. “Not hungry. And yourself?”

“I had a sandwich around noon,” says John. He turns the page of his medical dictionary. Sherlock knows that he isn’t really reading. “Nothing else since, so I’m a bit peckish, I must admit.”

“You can feel free to order something whenever you like,” offers Sherlock as he settles into his armchair, forming the steeple shape with his fingers. “Anything; it doesn’t matter to me, and I’m sure there are a few acceptable places still open.”

John sighs. “I don’t know about that. I haven’t seen any functioning take-away joints around here since before I left. Rather dangerous, don’t you think?” He glances up with a crooked smile. “Carting around bags of kung-pao chicken through gunfire? Must be difficult to get willing employees.”

Sherlock frowns. “Who said it had to be Chinese?” He shakes his head. “Well, there’s certainly no food in the kitchen here, of that much I can assure you.”

John laughs softly, and the sound seems to take on a color and blend into the walls, the air itself. “Believe me, I’m well aware. By the way, do you fancy some coffee at the moment?” He gestures towards the kitchen. “I noticed that you keep plenty in stock.”

Sherlock glances at the cup of tea at John’s side, perplexed. “That’s because coffee is all I usually eat or drink,” he replies. “But why should you offer to make some? You’ve already got your tea.” He frowns. “You really shouldn’t drink so much caffeine at one sitting, John. It’s not good for the health of most people. Only people such as myself are allowed to do such things.”

John laughs again, and this time the sound is a brilliant streak of color in the air before it fades.

“But I thought I wasn’t included in _most people_ , Sherlock.” He is smiling and Sherlock looks away, unsettled. “Besides, I was offering to make _you_ some coffee. For a genius, you’re awfully thick.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Me?” He sits back in the armchair. “I don’t require any, and if I did I would provide it for myself.” He swallows. “But thank you, I suppose.”

John shrugs. He has shut the medical dictionary by this point. “You know, I can cook. I mean, I’m not brilliant for it or anything like that, but it’s usually edible. So if you go out and buy some food, maybe some bread and milk, a few fruits and vegetables, even some eggs or meat if you’re feeling really adventurous, we could have square meals, maybe even three a day.” His voice is warm with hidden laughter, and Sherlock cannot bring himself to resent the quiet joke being made of his lifestyle. “Only if you’re up for it, of course.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Such brilliant comedy, my dear Watson.” He sighs. “Fine. Tomorrow I will fetch some….groceries…and you may have your way with them. But as for tonight, I am afraid you will have to fend for yourself.”

John grins. “Fair cop.” He stretches and takes a long sip of his tea. “I’m only a bit peckish, anyways.”

Silence falls. Sherlock tries not to think about the meeting with Adler. He distracts his mind with silly games, naming all the capitals of all the countries in the world, identifying every specie of tobacco known to man, counting the creases in John’s face. One for every death. But this particular game rapidly devolves into simply observing John. He has opened the medical dictionary again and every once in a while flips a page, but he is still not really reading, the absent flicker of his gaze betrays that much. He is thinking. He is thinking and Sherlock can nearly hear the rhythm of his thought, slow and measured, such a contrast to the racing and erratic tempo of his own mind. How strange that they get along so easily.

At some point John looks up. Sherlock does not bother to lower his gaze. He finds no shame in his studies and he even dares to think that John is perhaps already accustomed to his peculiarities.

“You’re thinking,” he observes glassily. “Care to share with the class?”

John smiles and chuckles quietly. “Nothing special.” He shifts, takes his teacup from the arm of the chair, but doesn’t drink. “Just what all doctors think.”

“I see.” Sherlock understands, and suddenly he does not know what to say. With anyone else he would have brushed away such sentimentality without a second thought. But even after only three weeks, Sherlock knows that John does not affect emotion. When he is truly shaken he seems to become submerged, and cannot breathe, and robs the breath of all who come near. His mouth grows thin, his eyes expressive and tragic, his face as easy to read as a picture book. Sherlock inhales with some difficulty. The situation is mystifying.

John exhales and his words are buoyed towards the ceiling. “You’re going to think I’m very foolish, Sherlock, and you’re probably right. But who am I kidding. You are right. You always are. I’ve known that much about you from the offset.”

He takes a sip of tea and swallows slowly. “In any case, it’s only that…well, to be honest, I can’t seem to shake her from my head. She pops up in every other thought. It’s a bit maddening, actually.”

Sherlock is quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, he chooses his words carefully.

“I don’t see how that’s foolish. She only just died this morning and you’ve proven yourself to be the sort of man who honestly cares for each and every patient. Perplexing, that, and quite inconvenient, as you can see, but not necessarily…foolish…I would say.”

John shakes his head. “I haven’t finished yet. It’s that…it’s…this death is the most haunting that I’ve seen since I was at the front. It’s one of those consuming deaths, the kind that sinks into you and won’t let you free, not now, probably not ever…”

He glances to the side as if there were something there. Someone bending over him, whispering in his ear. An impenetrable expression crosses his face. But it only lasts an instant; he looks up again and his eyes are clear.

“The foolish part is that…it’s that I feel guilty, Sherlock. I can’t get her out of my mind because it’s my fault she’s dead. I should have kept closer watch, not trusted her to the nurses so much, run more scans, something…” He swallows. “She wasn’t that sick. She shouldn’t have died. And I can only trace the fault back to myself.”

Sherlock wants to scream because John is so wrong. He is sucked back to the meeting with Irene, the coded conversation, the temporary excuse. He wants to pull at his own hair and scream. He wants to grip John by the collar and scream at him that not even the slightest fault belongs to him, because if there is any fault at all, then all of it is Sherlock’s. He leaves none to spare. He is greedy and selfish. John may have none. John must be spared.

“You’re being illogical,” he says smoothly. John sighs.

“I knew you would say something like that,” he mumbles. “You’re not wrong. I am being illogical. But when you think about it, this whole thing is illogical.” He runs a hand over his face. “I can’t figure out why she died. I’ve been thinking all day, doing research on the symptoms…nothing. No good reason. She shouldn’t have died from that sickness, Sherlock. It was serious, yes, very serious, but not life-threatening. There were none of the right signs. It just doesn’t add up. Surely even you can admit to that much.”

Cornered. Sherlock is infinitely grateful that John does not understand what he is saying. He hopes he never will. He nods tersely. “I will give you that much.”

John dips his chin. His eyes focus on his lap. “This whole thing just doesn’t make sense.”

And a strange sensation begins to overcome Sherlock. It starts somewhere in his chest and spreads with a frightening voracity. Already it is reaching for the very tips of his fingers. And then it begins to slowly devour him. John toys with the edge of his sweater. His eyes are like cold deep water. Outside the light dims into the inconstant color of dusk and reflects shadows across his face. But the sadness is profound and eminent. Guilt turns the corners of his mouth down and memory fills the creases in his forehead. He is reliving the desert, the scorching dunes, the chalky faces of soldiers dying just beyond the reach of his hands, the cry of gunfire, he is reliving it all in the small white face of the little girl dead on the hospital cot, dead with her skin already yellowing at the corners.

He is losing himself in memory and the shadow of Death that hovers at his shoulder, and Sherlock is consumed with the desire to help him, and he can think of nothing else.

“It’s not your fault, John,” he groans, lurching forwards in the armchair. “Please don’t look at me like that. I can’t stand it. It’s driving me mad. It’s not your fault. You must believe me. I know it sounds strange, arrogant even, but I’m absolutely positive that it’s not your fault. I can’t explain, but it’s not…” He inhales unsteadily. “You simply must believe me when I tell you that it isn’t your fault.”

John stares at him. The silence is profound. Sherlock breathes heavily. John must believe him. He cannot bear the look in his eyes any longer. He will go insane. John exhales. He leans back in the armchair. He folds his hands together, swallows, and meets Sherlock’s eyes.

“Alright,” he says simply. “I believe you.”

And at the simple expression of trust in his face it occurs to Sherlock that he has just asked a man whom he has known for less than a month to believe him out of the goodness of his heart, against all logic and without evidence, and that this man has agreed. He is suddenly breathless; he is both terrified and amazed. John believes him. There is no lie in his face, and he does not say things simply to pacify others, not John. John is honest, and John believes a man such as Sherlock, against all reason, all good sense, against everything. Sherlock swallows his pounding heart. Extraordinary.

John is simply extraordinary.

Sherlock wants to say something. Perhaps he should thank him. But for some indeterminable reason he does not feel like a mere thank you, two syllables, once breath, so little effort, such a paltry gift compared to what John has just given him, would truly express his gratitude. Two words could not possibly illustrate the honest enormity of his astonishment. Of his amazement. Of the strange feeling rooted in his chest, the sudden scream of his pulse, the confusion that clouds his thoughts.

He does not know what to do.

He leans forwards. A distance of about three feet separates them. Sherlock does not know what he is doing. His mind races but produces nothing useful. It is as though his thought has melted away and his hands can no longer find purchase, can no longer form ideas and actions from the chaos of his consciousness. He does not know what he is doing. He is hurtling forwards, but towards what destination he does not know. He is frightened but he cannot stop. So be it.

The scream of a cellphone. John reaches into his pocket. His face darkens.

“It’s the clinic.” He swallows. “Sherlock, I think you’d better come, too.”

Sherlock breathes. The rhythm of his thought is returned. He has recovered himself.

“Me? But why?” 

John lurches upright and the medical dictionary falls to the floor. He swears quietly and picks it up, flipping once through the pages without really seeing them. He throws it onto the couch and runs a hand through his hair.

“They’ve got three more.”

-

Three more. Three more clustered in the lobby with wan faces and hollow cheekbones. Three more with swollen fingers and toes. Three more with skin so sensitive that they cry out at the touch of a fingertip. Three more with fear in their eyes. But this time they have papers. This time they have stories. This time it will be unimaginably worse. John stares at Sherlock with terror in his eyes. And Sherlock can do nothing but grit his teeth and wonder at the irony.

John ushers the new patients away. He glances back over his shoulder, but Sherlock shakes his head. He cannot bear to follow. Not now. First he must think. He always must think. He hopes John will understand. He laughs miserably. Of course he will understand. He is John. John is extraordinary.

Sherlock collapses into one of the chairs in the waiting room. He puts his face in his hands. The excuse has failed. He cannot ignore it. He cannot delude himself. Three more. They will be dead soon. They will be dead soon and there will be no more escaping. There is no doubt about it now.

There is no luck to be had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are temporary.

A young man. Nearly old enough to be drafted. Slender with awkward knees and elbows. Pale from the beginning and even more so with sickness. Sad eyes bulging from hollow cheekbones. Average. Dreams about beautiful girls far out of his league, and heroics in battle that were never possible in the first place, and the day when he graduates and can reach out and seize the world in his right fist. Honor student in school, but the war has stripped that future from his fingertips, and now death with strip away any future at all.

A woman in her thirties. She came from work, and soon her husband and two children join her in the clinic. She runs her hands through their hair one by one. They are pretty things, like little china dolls, cheeks airbrushed with rose paint and eyes of blue enamel. They smile at their mother. They do not understand. Even Sherlock must look away, but John has no choice; he greets the little girl and boy with a smile. As all doctors must do, he offers them each his hand, a piece of candy. Sad restitution for the loss of their mother. But they cannot know that.

And lastly another child, a boy this time, small and scared. Pale eyes and a shock of dark hair, slender lips, curiously beautiful. His mother comes as quickly as she can get off work. His father is a soldier. As he explains this, the boy puffs his chest out in pride. John smiles his heartbreak and pushes the boy’s hair back from his forehead. He takes his pulse, makes to tickle his tiny ribs before he remembers, and sends him to bed with his mother following worriedly behind.

Sherlock watches her and realizes that the father is dead, he was shot down in combat at least a month ago, but she still hasn’t told the boy because she can’t bear it, she is weak and exhausted, and does not want to hear him cry. He is struck by a profound disgust. When John asks him about it he shakes his head and tells him that it was nothing. John should not be weighed down by the miserable, private insanities of humanity. Such is Sherlock’s lot in life and he will not inflict it upon others. Or at least not upon John. Not unless he asks.

Night falls and John collapses at his desk. He props his face in his hands. Sherlock sits across from him and maintains a glassy composure so as not to cause alarm.

“It’s the same,” whispers John. “They’re all the same, all the same…”

He looks up at Sherlock and he can read the question in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he lies. Of course they will all die. Such is the magic of the disease. He knows that much better than anyone. But that is another story. One that perhaps he will never be able to confess. In any case, he cannot tell John. For all his fascinating unusual qualities, John is still an ordinary man at heart, and he subsists on hope in much the same way Sherlock does on black coffee and nicotine patches. To take hope away from him would leave him nothing put an empty shell.

Sherlock will not be the perpetrator of such a crime.

-

John shoos Death away from the sides of the bed with a wave of his hand, a warning just under his breath, with a nurse sent to fluff the pillows, to deliver a fresh dose of morphine. He will do anything to chase away that persistent shadow. Three more cannot die. He will not stand for it. And nor will he stand to see Death enjoying himself to such an extent, lurking at the feet of the bed and toying with the toes of the patient, twisting them back and forth in anticipation, grinning like the crescent moon through the windowpane.

Sherlock is as calm as always, and John cannot deny that it is reassuring to have him cool and collected at his side. He is a pillar of reason, black and white not only in his appearance but in his sensibilities, drawing a clear line between logic and insanity. At some point in the evening it occurs to John that he trusts him very much. John feels at ease with Sherlock. It is difficult to explain.

The nurses regard Sherlock nervously, perhaps because he as cold and intimidating as he is handsome, or perhaps because he can deduce the last time they made love, with whom, and whether it was satisfying or not, simply from a glance at the color of their lipstick, or the angle of their breasts. To be fair, this would set anyone ill at ease. It is obvious that Sherlock strikes a brilliant discord with the world. But together he and John seem to create a strange harmony. John is not sure what to make of it, but he finds it pleasant to the ears.

In any case, he is glad that Sherlock is there. Once the patients have settled into their beds and each has fallen asleep in the midst of a private haze of morphine, an unsettling silence falls over the clinic. Without someone tangible to talk to, only his own consciousness, and perhaps Death taking turns leering over each patient, John might have gone half-mad with memory. It is too much like the desert, which is as silent as a tomb once night falls because the heat that radiates from the sand and the indefinite black of night render the earth soundless, muffled and exhausted, so that even the groans of the dying cannot be heard.

He and Sherlock talk of nothing in particular. Their only goal is to fill the empty night with words, and even if each and every one is meaningless, just the sound of another voice is enough. At some point in the small hours of the morning, in the deep breath just before the dawn, Death grows tired of skirting the feet of the bed and takes up residence at the back of John’s chair, leaning over his shoulder to listen in on their conversation, the lamplight spilling halfway across his face.

At one point John remembers his childhood, recalls the quiet days in the countryside, skinning his knees climbing trees with his older sister. He and Sherlock discover that they did not live so far apart as children, but never so much as laid eyes on each other because Sherlock was homeschooled by a governess who spoke the Queen’s English in its purest form, and John went to a public school down a road which became a river of mud after a hard rain. Sherlock’s mother took tea in a white gazebo overlooking a lawn as smooth as green velvet, cool and isolated in her status; John’s mum set the kettle on a rickety wooden table and called her children and husband around, wiping sticky fingers on her own apron and kissing their foreheads one by one.

It is strange because they are so different from one another in almost every way, but sitting together in the pool of light cast by the desktop lamp, John does not feel far away from Sherlock. Rather he feels impossibly close, as though they somehow overlap at the edges without so much as lifting a finger to touch one another. This is illogical, because Sherlock is the epitome of removed. He does not submerge himself in reality but rather dabbles his toes on the surface, always testing the temperature of the water. At one point John glances at Sherlock and wonders if he is thinking the same thing. He wonders what he might make of it. John himself cannot explain it. It just is. As far as he can tell, they just are.

In the end dawn breaks, and he supposes that he will have to content himself with that much, for the meantime at the very least.

-

In the morning they take breakfast together. It is strange, but they do not so much as think to separate. Sherlock has coffee and an orange which he meticulously divides into neat slices and eats slowly. John picks at the watery cafeteria scrambled eggs as he goes over the lab results taken from the new patients the night before. As they feared, and as Sherlock new from the beginning, the charts and numbers are identical to those of the little girl. Beneath the chalky skin of each new patient rages an unmistakable private chaos. John props his head on his hands again. Wanting to distract him, to chase the guilt and terror from his eyes even if only for a little while, and most of all seized by a curiously fervent desire to stay near him, to watch him, make sure he doesn’t do anything rash, even though John is good and rational and Sherlock is psychotic and erratic, Sherlock asks if John would like to see the research lab.

John gives him a curious look, but he does not seem displeased. Sherlock finishes the last slice of his orange and shrugs. It is unusual that he should have to feign nonchalance. But it is hard to remain removed from someone like John. 

“It might do you good to get away from this place for a while,” he says. “You look exhausted.”

“So do you,” replies John. He isn’t wrong. But Sherlock always only looks exhausted. The frenetic pace of his mind does not allow such luxuries as tiredness. “But I suppose you’re right.”

“You’ll come along, then?”

John pushes his plate away. He has barely eaten anything. He reaches across the table and swallows the dregs of Sherlock’s coffee. Unthinkingly, as if it were nothing at all. Sherlock stares. John wipes his mouth on the edge of his sleeve.

“Right, then.” He manages a smile. “You lead the way.”

John is stunned to realize that the research department is in the basement of the clinic. With a smirk Sherlock tells him that it has always been a secret well kept. John makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, but his eyes shine. For the moment the shadow of Death lifts from his shoulders. Gratifying.

Sherlock serves as the guide through the labyrinth of white tile hallways, carving a haphazard path that dips in and out of the pools of light cast by emergency exit signs and florescent lamps that buzz softly in the silence. Occasionally a research assistant will flicker past. Their heels sing against the floor and leave a trail of echoes that hangs in the air long after they have disappeared past the bend in the hallway. Eventually they come to the end of the hallway. At the left there is a door. John reaches for the knob, but Sherlock intercepts him halfway there.

“You obviously do not understand the caliber of work with which my associates and I are entrusted.” He smirks and presses his index finger into a tiny censor just below the knob. “Easily missed by those who do not know where to look.” The door gives a sigh and comes open at the slightest touch.

John swears under his breath and follows him inside.

Sherlock has not been able to make his way back to the lab since he first accommodated John at Baker Street. He has been too occupied with conversations that last deep into the night and flimsy excuses to dam the flood of fear. And so the test tubes and samples are much as he left them, although a few cotton swabs left out of place and a pen that does not belong to him lying on the counter betray that Molly has come a few times and fussed about with the research. She obviously tried to leave everything just as it was. A valiant effort. She nearly succeeded. Sherlock smiles indulgently.

He goes to the set of test tubes and plucks one at random. He swirls the liquid inside until it colors a pale blue. He reaches for the nearest pad of paper and jots down a few notes with the pen that Molly left behind. He is acutely aware of John, who for the meantime occupies himself circling the counters and squinting into the miscellaneous petri dishes. But then again, he is acutely aware of most things.

“Interesting,” he murmurs as the liquid in the test tube strengthens to a vivid orange. And then John is at his side, peering over his shoulder. He smells like curiosity and for a moment Sherlock dreads that he will ask a stupid question. He will not be sure how to react if John asks a stupid question. 

“That’s a lovely color,” says John. “How important is all this rubbish, anyways? Forgive me, but it seems like a lot of security for nothing more than a spot of disease research.” 

Sherlock wants to cheer. How stupid he was to even so much as consider that John might ask something so useless as what’s that or what are you studying. If only he could answer such an astute question as it rightly deserves. 

“Classified,” he replies unhappily. He would like John to know. In any other situation he would have explained. But not now. It cannot be now. 

John shrugs. “Fair enough.” He wanders away again, into the back room. Sherlock can hear his footsteps and sketch his path in his mind. He stops at the door to wonder at the danger signs, considers asking for permission, then decides against it and pushes forwards. The light is dim and he stumbles about for a bit before he adjusts. Now he is examining the range of sealed jars, reeling a bit at the bottled fetus but recovering himself in good time to get a proper look at the magnificently preserved anatomy. He moves on and the footsteps stop. Sherlock holds his breath.

“Hey, Sherlock.” John appears in the doorway. “Mind showing me what this is?”

Sherlock exhales unsteadily. “Not at all.”

He finds himself in front of the glass case that takes up the entire back shelf. “This used to be a pantry, you know,” he comments dryly. John rolls his eyes.

“ _Moriarty_?” He gestures to the trio of test tubes suspended in the center of the glass case. “What sort disease is that?”

Sherlock cannot repress a smile. “A new one.” 

John raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Indeed,” replies Sherlock silkily. “And quite dangerous, at that. It’s shown its face in some isolated villages in the center of China. We got our share of samples some time ago.” He leans in close to the case. “Go ahead and have a proper look. Don’t worry. It’s quite sealed. One must take the utmost security with such a lethal weapon.”

John looks up. “Weapon?” 

“So to speak.”

John is silent. He stares into the case for some time. Sherlock cannot read his face. Frustrating. After a considerable while he clears his throat.

“John. It should not need to be said, but you are not to speak of this to anyone.” He looks down. “To be perfectly honest I’m not quite sure what I was thinking, showing this to you, after all.”

John stares. The soft light that emanates from the cage reflects into his eyes.

“Of course not,” he says quietly. “Not a word. I swear to you on my honor as a soldier.” He pauses. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks at him in surprise. “What for?”

John shrugs. “Showing me, I suppose.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s all very interesting, and you trusted me enough to show me…me, of all people. But in any case, thank you.”

Of all people! Sherlock wants to laugh. But his throat is swollen. He only nods.

“Certainly.”

-

They spend a while longer in the lab, puttering around the test tubes and shaking up the petri dishes. John cannot deny that he is intrigued by the whole business. Sherlock moves through the web of scientific equipment and chemicals with a glassy sort of grace, not unlike the way he moves playing the violin but colder, more calculating, less free. Every footstep is carefully measured, and his fingertips play out orderly patterns over the microscopes and the eyedroppers. John watches in helpless fascination. He can understand without trouble the compounds and the equations, the purpose and execution of the study, but never will he be able to carry himself with such meticulous ease. It is strange and admirable, and he nearly forgets himself in watching Sherlock.

At some point a knock on the door shatters the scientific reverie. Sherlock sighs and admits a young woman into the lab. John recognizes her as the girl who was with Sherlock when he first broke into the clinic three weeks ago. She is slender and her mouth pulls down at the corners with worry. She gazes at Sherlock with eyes stretched out of proportion with admiration. John swallows and glances uneasily to the side. He cannot help but touch his own face and wonder if he was wearing such an expression not moments ago.

“John,” says Sherlock, beckoning him over. “Do come and introduce yourself. This is Molly Hooper, my top research assistant.”

She seems to bloom at the praise, color flooding her cheeks, her eyes kindling. John smiles sympathetically and takes her hand.

“Thrilled to meet you, Ms. Hooper.”

“Just Molly,” she says quickly. Her palm is clammy. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

John glances at Sherlock. His chin is lifted high in the air so that the sharp lines of his jaw and nose and the shock of his hair obscure his expression. Brooding. So be it. John has to fight down a smirk.

“And I, you,” he lies. Sherlock looks at him sharply. John ignores him. “Rumor has it you’re quite handy with the pipette.”

For her part, Molly nearly dissolves on the spot. She beams and the expression makes her look uncomfortable, like her face is about to part in two.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she stammers, tugging at the collar of her lab coat. “Nothing special, really.”

“Nonsense,” continues John, but before Sherlock can intervene there is another knock at the door. This time Sherlock rolls his eyes and gives a terrific sigh as Molly lets in an older man with silver hair and a poorly tailored black suit.

“Sherlock!” cries the man at once, pushing past Molly without a glance. “Who is this?” He obviously means John. “You know full well that you mustn’t let unauthorized personnel in here, and especially not _now_ , of all times!”

Sherlock frowns. “I can safely assume that Ms. Adler has informed you, then?”

The man practically spits. “Of course she bloody well informed me! You may have forgotten, but despite popular opinion, I’m actually the head of this operation, not you, Sherlock.” He gestures furiously to John. “Explain yourself.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleam and in an instant they become colored chips of glass. It has been so long that John has nearly forgotten they could look like that. Sherlock grips his shoulder.

“This is Doctor John Hamish Watson,” he says effortlessly. “And should you profess to maintain even the slightest particle of common sense you might do well to understand that this alone serves as sufficient authorization.”

John is not afraid. Rather he feels irrationally safe standing next to Sherlock, with his hand on his shoulder. But for some reason his heart sings in his ears. He is acutely aware of Sherlock at his side, of the measured come and go of his breathing, his seamless composure, the pressure of his hand. The man glances between them. A moment of suspense. Then his eyes widen.

“Oh. I see. Forgive me.” And he extends his hand to John. “Doctor Gregory Lestrade. Very pleased to meet you. I do apologize for my rudeness.”

John takes his hand with a smile. “Think nothing of it.”

“I am the head of this operation,” replies Lestrade almost immediately. John clears his throat to mask a laugh.

“So I’ve heard.” He is struggling not to grin. “I’m honored.”

Sherlock intervenes with another splendid roll of his eyes. His expression has melted again, no longer cool and glassy. Just indifferent. It suits him.

“Do stop with these dreadful pretenses and just ask him to the cinema already.” He smiles indulgently. “At this point we all know that the government signed you to be in charge of this madman’s adventure, and we simply cannot imagine what we would do were you not here to kick us around.”

John stifles a chuckle behind his fist. He knows he shouldn’t encourage Sherlock. Lestrade seethes. Molly covers her mouth with her hands and turns to hide her face. Sherlock turns back to his test tubes without another word. They take their time, dawdling until John’s cellphone calls him back to the clinic. Sherlock follows without question. John did not expect anything else. For better or for worse they are in this together, and will not be separated.

And as they bid farewell to Molly and Lestrade, it occurs to John that he has just met Sherlock’s family.

-

Neither of them wants to stay long at the clinic. Even if John will not admit it aloud, at this point he understands the fate of the three new patients. It is less painful for Sherlock, but the fear is unbearable. He supposes he is selfish. But this does not come as a surprise. In any case, he does not like to see John in such distress. They escape as quickly as possible.

Sherlock suggests that they get some dinner, even though of course he is not hungry. It is really nothing more than a feeble attempt to ply the stricken expression from John’s eyes. Italian? If you say so. You can’t really be hungry. True. But you are. And he turns away from the surprised look John gives him. But he is thankful that something has replaced the grief.

Sherlock manages to convince Angelo to dump the food into a brown paper page, and they head straight to Baker Street. They dodge the shadows that dusk blends into the horizon and duck inside just before the clouds break into a thin rain. Water trails along the windows as John fetches two plates and sets the kettle on to boil. Watching him, Sherlock thinks that he might even eat something.

He turns on the television while John arranges the food on the coffee table. Some mindless medical drama. Of course he immediately guesses the disease. Too easy. He throws his head back on the couch with a groan. John rolls his eyes but there is the trace of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“It must be so hard to be you.” He settles down beside him. “Nothing ever surprises you. You poor tragic thing. How do you survive?”

Of course he is being sarcastic, but he is also right, and Sherlock gets the impression that they both know it. He shifts and reaches for a slice of garlic bread. John stares unabashedly as he bites down and chews pensively. He swallows conclusively and closes his eyes.

“With a little help.”

For a long time the sound of the television and the murmur of the rain fill the room. Outside, London slowly darkens. The night is unusually quiet, as though the rain somehow cast a moratorium on the combat for the time being. Only every once in a while does the spatter of gunfire break the curious tranquility. Eventually night falls completely and the yellow glow of the lamps eclipses the room. At some point John shifts and clears his throat.

“I ought to thank you again, Sherlock,” he says quietly. He fiddles with the edge of his sweater. “For introducing me to everyone at the clinic, I mean.” He pauses. Sherlock is still. He does not want to move and somehow break his train of thought. As though that were somehow possible! But John plays strange tricks on logic and reason.

“It’s probably going to sound funny to you, but I haven’t made any real friends since I got back. Admittedly there’s Sarah over at the clinic, but we don’t talk all that often. And I don’t see my family much at all anymore, either. My mum and dad are actually quite busy and my sister is…well, my sister is a long story. But that isn’t the point. The point was I didn’t talk to many people. And it’s that…well…I’m sure someone like you can imagine the reasons.” His eyes are fixed on his lap. “Anyways it’s only that I…well I…well.”

Sherlock waits. Eventually John sighs and shakes his head.

“Thank you, anyways.”

And for once, Sherlock cannot deduce what he was about to say. Naturally, he is immediately seized by a desperate curiosity, but he does not act upon it. He only nods slightly and fixes his gaze on the television, trying to drown himself in the blur of color and sound.

“It was no trouble,” he says carefully. “You’re quite welcome.”

John settles back into the sofa. They are quiet for a long time while Sherlock silently burns with curiosity. Be knows too well that at moments like this he is at his worst. But he cannot bear not knowing something. Espeically something about John. But he understands that he must not ask. By some tacit rule, he must not ask. And so he needs a distraction.

“I’ve figured out the story behind your sister,” he says, and wants to bite his tongue until his mouth overflows with blood. John glances away from the television. Sherlock steals a glimpse and is relieved to see that there is only curiosity in his expression.

“Have you really?”

Sherlock cannot stop now. He easily details the stages of her alcoholism, her confused relationship with her mother, her almost violently estranged relationship with her father, her interminable series of deadbeat girlfriends who only nursed her on the bottle, and lastly her helpless dependence on John, who desperately wants to help her but cannot allow himself to encourage her.

They fall silent and the television and the rain color the space between them.

“Her name is Harriet, but we all call her Harry,” sighs John after a time. “And I might add, Sherlock, that at times I think that I should never hope to understand you.”

Sherlock shifts. “Perhaps a wise decision.”

John is quiet for a long moment. “But I think I might keep trying, even so.” He gives a crooked smile. “I’m afraid that stubbornness runs in my blood.”

Sherlock stares. He is breathless. He is breathless and impossibly relieved. It occurs to him that he has been hoping with all his heart that John would say something like that. Of course Sherlock wants to be understood. He is repelled by humanity, but in the end he is only human. He wants to be understood as desperately as John wants to help his sister, and cannot allow himself the luxury in much the same way. But if he had to select anyone in the world to be the first to understand him John Watson would be the first choice. Yes, he is impossibly relieved.

However, at the moment there are more pressing matters to be resolved. John stares blankly at the television. He looks sad again.

“It won’t be like this forever, you know.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “How silly to think that things won’t change eventually. She can’t drink forever.”

John looks at him quite curiously.

“Honestly.” Sherlock crosses him arms over his chest. “I find this to be one of the most ridiculous behaviors exhibited by most people. You find yourself in a situation and convince yourself that said situation will never change. As if such an idea were even remotely logical! Really, it’s the most childish tendency I can think of. Things change, or haven’t you noticed? Only infants think that the things will always be as they are. I can’t tell you whether things will improve or only worsen. Foresight doesn’t exist. Ridiculous idea in the first place, that. Really, the conventions of humanity are preposterous, each and every one of them. No, I can’t tell you whether things will improve, or what they will be at the end. But I can assure you of one thing.” And he looks John in the eyes. “Things will change.”

A final interval of silence in which Sherlock can hear his heart beat as clearly as a drum. Finally John shakes his head. And then he is smiling.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he sighs. “It seems I will never be able to stop thanking you.”

-

Morning comes and the pattern becomes inescapable. The waiting room of the clinic is cluttered with exhausted people collapsed in rows with their heads lolling on one another’s shoulders, skin as white as the plaster walls, their fingers and toes flushed and swollen, their nerves fine-tuned to the slightest pressure.

And by now Sherlock knows that it is only a matter of time. He can count by the messages that flood his cellphone. Adler has told his brother. And if Adler has told his brother, it means she is truly afraid. And if Adler will admit to her fear, then the excuse can no longer hold. The dam must crumble and the torrent must be unleashed upon the streets of London.

Sherlock closes his eyes.

Things cannot stay the way they are. They must change. Such is the nature of the universe. War cannot last forever. Neither can life. Neither can sickness nor health. He opens his eyes and looks at John. He is at work, bent over his clipboard with worry creasing his brow. Death is at his shoulder. A watchful shadow.

And neither, Sherlock considers, can happiness.

A matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which night ends, but dawn is worse, and something can't be defined.

They are good friends. They have no choice. Those who worry for the same reasons must stick together. Although in their case really it is nothing more than a single reason. A reason as brilliant and capturing as it is problematic and infuriating. A reason that they both love with all their hearts, if not for different reasons, and if not in very different ways.

“Lieutenant General Adler.” He turns from the window with a measured smile. In the end, however, he supposes the subject matter does not call for smiling and resigns the warmth to his eyes. He reaches for a crystal decanter of cognac and pours two glasses. The General takes her seat on the other side of the desk. She crosses one leg over the other and accepts the drink.

“Big brother Holmes.” The suggestion of a smile stains the corner of her mouth. She takes a deliberate sip of cognac. “You look well.”

“As do you,” he replies. “Quite lovely in your uniform, as always.”

She stretches indulgently. “Glad to hear it.” She swirls the amber liquid in the bottom of the glass and flecks of light glitter from her eyes. “Has he called you back yet?”

“He never does.”

“I know.”

They are quiet for a time. Neither wants to bring up the matter that they know they must discuss. For a moment they wish for nothing more than to pretend that things are as they always have been. They will drink, run over maps and tactics, crack jokes about their subordinates, and of course they will talk about Sherlock. He is the reason, after all. The infuriating precious reason. The glue of their friendship.

But they are adults and they are powerful, and they have responsibilities, and at the most terrible times those responsibilities are of course the greatest. Mycroft Holmes sighs and drains his glass in one tremendous gulp. Irene Adler raises an eyebrow, impressed. But more than anything she is trying to stave off the alarm that turns the air static.

“So it has come to this,” murmurs Mycroft. He cannot help but glance out the window. Outside London is grey, but alive and breathing. The sky is silver. So the sun must be strong through the thin layer of cloud. There was light rain in the morning but now the air is dry.

“I worry that is has,” replies Irene, staring into her drink. “We knew the risks when we authorized the operation. We knew the risks when we assigned Sherlock.”

“I know we knew the risks,” snaps Mycroft. Irene does not flinch. He shifts and taps the edge of his glass with his index finger. “You know I trust you more than anyone in this whole bloody military, ranking be damned. You’re the smartest. The best I know. It’s a shame you’ve got such a tongue on you, otherwise you might have been at the head of this whole sodding mess long ago.”

“Apology accepted,” replies Irene coolly. “It was as much a risk to assign Sherlock.”

“It’s not his fault.” Mycroft closes his eyes. “It is not my brother’s fault.”

“I know. I have no desire to place such a blame on anyone, let alone Sherlock. Let’s please not forget that I love him as dearly as you do.”

“I know.” Mycroft pours more cognac. He is surprised that his hand is steady. Irene holds out her glass. They watch the slender arc of amber liquid in silence.

“I suppose it does not even require saying,” sighs Irene after a time. “We both know what has to be done. You’ve seen the numbers. Even just in the past week. It multiples exponentially every day. We can’t afford it anymore.”

“We couldn’t afford it in the first place.” Mycroft takes another long drink. “And even so, in the end that’s not really the issue.”

Irene gives a mirthless laugh. “Ironic that a country in war has to take such desperate measures to stop people from dying.” She smiles grimly. “Perhaps this is our punishment for creating something we shouldn’t have.”

“Better than the Truman solution,” attempts Mycroft feebly. Irene sighs.

“We don’t really know about that.” She glances out the window. “It’s going to get worse no matter what we do. It’s already out. The evacuation will only be a conservative measure.”

It is the first time they have said it aloud. They both stare into their laps for an indeterminable time. Finally Irene lifts her gaze. She swirls her drink once, twice. Runs her index finger along the rim. But nobody can dawdle forever.

“So that’s it, then,” says Mycroft.

“We don’t have a choice.” Irene drains her glass and wipes her mouth on her sleeve. “I’ll ring up the enemy as soon as possible. War is war. But they won’t want to risk themselves here. The first of their troops started catching just yesterday. It won’t be difficult.”

Mycroft nods sadly. “I will see to it straightaway.” He rubs at his temple. “Thank goodness the queen is away on negotiations in the United States. May she stay there until this whole matter is good and sorted.”

“I’ll drink to that,” says Irene dryly, and they laugh unhappily because they’ve already had too much. They fall silent. A final question hangs between them. The air grows thick. At long last Mycroft gives a terrific sigh.

“I’ll tell him.” He surrenders. “No use souring his opinion of you as well. He grows close to so few.”

“Nobody,” says Irene. She does not try to conceal her gratitude. “He grows close to nobody.”

Mycroft nods and reaches for the phone.

“And for once that will serve him well.”

-

His phone rings late in the afternoon. Later he will take great pains to remember the exact moment, catalogue it meticulously into his mind, make sure that it is filed away in the most important section, where up until that point he only allowed the ghosts of brilliant ideas that never flourished into theories or laws because they were never given time. There is always too much to be done. But that is beside the point. His phone rings late in the afternoon, when John is the most exhausted.

It’s been a week, and the clinic is chaos. The patients have spread through the entire hospital. And although every morning half of them lie cold between the sheets, twice that number crowds the waiting room. The news spreads slowly, because nobody wants to talk about it. Nobody wants to make it real. And so a silent terror to begins to sink into the city.

John is beside himself. He does not sleep. It is heartbreakingly ironic that he only remembers to eat at Sherlock’s insistence. Always at his shoulder is the shadow of Death, leering like a crescent moon. It seeps into his eyes, his skin, his very hands, which do not tremble even when dawn breaks on twenty new corpses. But he bears it all. It is extraordinary.

Sherlock has not left his side for so much as a moment. In fact the idea has not even occurred to him. He does not want his laboratory. He does not want the test tubes and petri dishes and the glowing glass case in the back room. He does not want the reminder. He does not want Baker Street. Not without John, whose absence would immediately be noted like an open window or a freezing draft, books out of place on the shelf or the violin out of tune. He does not want that.

All he wants is to help John. They are never apart. It is as if they have melded into one person. They are a dichotomy in its truest form. Sherlock is cold and calculating. He stays the syringe of morphine when the patient is on the brink of death. Supplies run low. Waste cannot be allowed. And then John is human. He murmurs to the children and comforts the stranded mothers and wanders in a dream of war and death and chalky faces. In the end his only guide is Sherlock’s hand. He stumbles on the path but he stays upright because now they serve as one another’s reality.

They have become akin to sleepwalkers. But one night cannot last forever. It is only a matter of time. It is only a matter of time, and the phone call is the dawn. 

Sherlock does not know why he picks up. Perhaps it is because he is exhausted. But perhaps more likely it is because at the bottom of his heart he knows. In any other case he would ignore it. He would shove the phone back into his pocket with a sneer. He would return to helping John. But he does not. He picks up the phone. He picks up the phone and says hello to his brother.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice is terse. “Evacuation. Three days. Don’t tell anyone.”

The world falls still.

“If you say so.”

And then Sherlock hangs up. The clinic is silent. Of course it is an illusion. The air is rent with talk and groans and the rush of footsteps and the almost imperceptible undertone of death. But to him the clinic is silent and the world is still. At some point John appears. He is wiping blood from his hands with a rag. He is absorbed in the job. At long last he looks up at Sherlock. His jaw falls slack.

John grabs his wrist and leads him into his office. The desk is covered in a chaos of paper, medical documents and histories and visas and birth certificates. John grips Sherlock by the shoulders. His hands are strong. Sherlock wonders if he will snap.

“What is it?” John stares at him fearlessly. “You have to tell me, Sherlock.” 

Mycroft said not to tell anyone. John is not included in _anyone_ , not at all. Sherlock groans and the world rushes back to life in an excruciating explosion of sound and color. He is glad for John’s hands on his shoulders. Otherwise he fears he might break into a thousand pieces.

“Evacuation.” He closes his eyes. “They’re going to evacuate the city.”

John is silent. Sherlock dares to look at him. His expression is unreadable. Sherlock inhales unsteadily.

“The whole city, John,” he continues raggedly. “The whole bloody city, before more people can die. It’s already started. They’re going to get everyone out. Three days. Everyone. Even the enemy troops. They have to. They don’t have a choice. We don’t have a choice. Nobody does. There’s no other option.”

John regards him warily. “But why?”

Sherlock could scream with frustration. “The sodding _disease_ , John. What else could it possibly be?”

John frowns. “What do you know about this?”

“Nothing more than what I’ve told you.” An easy lie. He was prepared. John seems to be thinking. And yet there is not a trace of panic in his expression. Sherlock is flabbergasted. He does not understand. John lets go of his shoulders.

“But where will they go?”

Sherlock stares. “America, I would guess. The queen is already there in the first place.” He cannot comprehend that John is so calm. “But that hardly matters, does it?”

John frowns. “So it’s some sort of enormous quarantine, then?”

Sherlock nods. He waits for the panic to show on John’s face. But it never does. In the end there is only the slightest flicker of emotion. Anger winks from the bend of his mouth, the crease of his forehead. But why? 

“And what do they plan to do with the patients?” John takes a deep breath. “What do they plan to do with the people who haven’t shown symptoms yet?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Leave them.”

“To die? Alone? And in pain?” 

Sherlock nods. A shadow crosses John’s face.

“I see.” And he turns to his desk. Braces himself on the back of a chair. A long silence. And then Sherlock realizes.

“John.” He grabs him by the shoulder. “John, no. You mustn’t. You’re insane.”

John looks at him with tired eyes. Another silence. Then Sherlock releases him. They do not need words. John Watson is a doctor. A doctor and nothing else. Death opened him up and tore through his insides and clumsily sewed him back together long ago. He eft nothing in his wake. John Watson is a doctor and nothing else and he will serve his duty until the end. He has no other choice. There is nothing left for him. He is the loneliest man in the world. He has accepted his fate.

He will not leave London.

-

The days pass more quickly than they should. Death makes time run together at the seams. The evacuation has already begun. Each day the city is more silent, more still, more grey. At the break of the final dawn the illusion of a coat of ash has settled over London. The light is clear and brutal and the sky is a slice of fragile blue porcelain. Nothing moves. Every once in a while the dull snap of helicopter blades can be heard in the distance. From time to a time a dog barks. Otherwise the quiet is as profound as a tomb.

The rest of the day slips away through their fingers. The effort to hold onto the hours and minutes, to grasp for the seconds, is hopeless. Their hands cannot find purchase. They work. The patients groan and ask for water, painkiller, any number of things. They comply. What choice do they have? And before they have even so much as taken a breath the pale winter afternoon bleeds into the inconstant color of dusk.

For the first time in what seems an eternity, they do not stay at the clinic overnight. John washes his hands and takes his coat from the pegs in the office. He shakes away the jacket of dust and goes to find Sherlock. He finds him in his shirtsleeves, bent over the counter measuring morphine. The supply shrinks and shrinks every day. At this point the effort is hopeless. Nobody will bring more to the already doomed. Sherlock turns. John knows that at a glance he can deduce everything.

“I’ll fetch my coat.” He slides the tray of syringes back into the cupboard. “Hold on just a tic.”

John nods. Sherlock disappears into his office and emerges with his blazer. It is ironic, but the sharp lines of black satin lend a sense of normalcy to the whole situation. It is almost as if they had just met all over again. For a moment they hold each other’s gaze. They have known one another for scarcely a month but John knows every line in Sherlock’s face, every nuance of expression, every shadow of color that could cross his eyes. It is all familiar, every part of him. Stuck. Irreparably lodged in his memory. He has never known a person so well. In fact he had not even thought it possible. And yet he feels he still has so much to learn.

“This is a mess,” says Sherlock before John can speak. “I am truly sorry.”

John shakes his head. He is not sure why Sherlock is apologizing. They have forgotten that they are standing in the middle of the clinic.

“No, don’t be ridiculous. This has nothing to do with you.” He closes his eyes for a long moment. Tries to measure his breathing. It is difficult. He opens his eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock frowns. “Don’t. You have no reason. This is my fault. I involved myself.” He puts his hands in his pockets, drops his gaze to his feet. “I wasn’t expecting…all this.”

John swallows thickly. “All what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I.”

A pause.

“But it’s something.” Sherlock looks him in the eyes. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

John feels breathless. “Yes. Good God, of course. Yes. It’s something.”

Another pause. Perhaps they are both struggling for words. Or perhaps there is nothing more to be said. John cannot place a name to the feeling. It fills his mouth and throat and heart and lungs and pounds in his very blood. It is familiar but strange at the same time. He does not know what to say. What words he could possibly place in the space between them? Perhaps he’ll never know.

Sherlock clears his throat.

“We’ve got a night left.” He glances back at the infirmary, at the rows and rows of beds filled with the sick, the soon to be dead. “Might as well make the most of it.”

John nods. Might as well. Perhaps in that time the right words will come to him and he will be able to define what it is that exists between himself and Sherlock, place a name to the strange bond, the feeling in his chest that is familiar and foreign at the same time. But he doubts it.

“Back to the flat, then?”

Sherlock dips his chin. “It’s late. Shall we fetch some dinner first? Italian, perhaps?” He pauses. “For…old time’s sake, that is.”

John smirks. “Oh, you must be terribly hungry, working all day.” He wants to pretend things are normal. He wants to pretend and he hopes Sherlock will pretend, too, because games are no fun playing alone. He waits with baited breath. Sherlock chuckles as they head towards the door. He exhales.

“Entirely famished, of that much I can assure you.” He opens the door with a grandiose sweep of the arm. “After you, my dear Watson.”

John rolls his eyes, but he is impossibly grateful. They don’t say anything much in particular as they head down the stairs and step out onto the street. Or at least they say nothing of importance; they don’t want to. Dusk bruises the horizon blue and purple. The indefinite colors of night begin to stain the streets in places, but the fires in the alleyways are no longer lit and the shadows are still. The air is cool and soundless. They both fall into a respectful silence on reflex alone.

John tries not to think. He concentrates on the street, the pace of his footsteps, on breathing, the inconstant color of the sky. He reckons that it is easier for him than for Sherlock. He wishes he could help but he doesn’t want to break the curious spell of silence. At this point they both know the way to Baker Street by heart. They don’t need to speak. They seldom do. Words are translated between them soundlessly. They absorb and transmit meanings in the slightest inclination of the chin, the rustle of a jacket, an inhale, an exhale, a crease of a forehead. John shakes his head. He does not want to think about that. He does not want to consider their strange bond.

Most of the restaurants have closed. There are no more customers. As a matter of fact there is little food left to serve. And yet the lights of Angelo’s still glow, a flickering greeting from across the street. Another fragment of normalcy in the center of the crisis. John cannot help but smile. He dares to glance up and sees the light reflected in Sherlock’s eyes. Pools of yellow in the pale slivers of glass. Angelo sets up a special table for them with as much fanfare as though the restaurant were packed. He looks exhausted. He leaves first thing in the morning. He wanted to be the last to go.

“I’m glad that I got to see you two again,” he booms as he lights a candle in the center of the red checked tablecloth. “Who knows where we’ll all end up at this rate, eh?”

Sherlock nods and John stares into his lap. They are both supposed to leave early the next morning, along with the rest of Sherlock’s research crew, just a few hours after Angelo. They were even assigned to the same airplane. John might add that he highly suspects that Sherlock’s mysterious and allegedly powerful brother had a hand in that arrangement. But that hardly matters anymore. Mycroft went to such trouble for nothing. John won’t be there. Sherlock will go alone. He has agreed to cover for him. He will escape and John will stay. Simple.

Even Sherlock eats. Perhaps he feels compelled by ceremony. Perhaps it is a gift. But the reason isn’t really important. He and John talk. Mentions of the weather, their childhoods, half-remembered anecdotes from their school days, university, embarrassing stories about their siblings, anything other than the next day, the constant roar of the aeroplanes and helicopters, the silent city, the dying patients with white faces turned towards the ceiling as if in prayer.

John supposes it will have to be said eventually, but eventually is not that moment, not when they are bathed in the candlelight and almost succeeding in their game, almost pretending that they are normal, that nothing is awry, offbeat, that tomorrow will be like any other day. That they will see each other again after the next morning. That they have years of friendship before them instead of hours. A lifetime to figure out what _something_ is rather than a single night that will be cut short by the curfew. A lifetime to act. Time. John eats slowly.

They linger for as long as can be justified, drinking two rounds of espresso and splitting a slice of tiramisu. How Angelo still managed to get his hands on tiramisu will forever remain a mystery. They swallow the last bites with difficulty. Angelo seems as reluctant to bring the check as they are to receive it. They stretch the evening thinner with a few desperate snippets of conversation. Then they can pretend no more. Angelo waves farewell as they finally step out onto the street.

The night has grown cold. They head to Baker Street straightaway. The windows are dark; Mrs. Hudson is already asleep. They slip inside like ghosts and Sherlock lights a single lamp that fills the sitting room with a rounded yellow glow. John hesitates in the darkness of the foyer, gazing into the mirror, tracing the indefinite lines of his face in the shadow. After a time Sherlock joins him.

“Stay here when I’m gone.” His voice is smooth. He does not bother to whisper. “Whenever you can get away from the work, that is. Please.”

John nods. His throat feels thick. “Thank you. I will.”

Sherlock dips his chin. “Shall I put on the water for tea?”

John shakes his head. “No. That’s alright. Not thirsty.” He pauses. “Actually, I...well, I was wondering if you would do me a favor.”

Even in the indefinite grey light he can see Sherlock raise a brow in surprise. “Certainly.”

John bites down on his lower lip. “Your violin.” He dares not turn from the mirror. “Do you think you could play something for me?”

He hears Sherlock inhale. A tenuous moment of silence. Finally an exhale. Strong enough to brush warm and soft against the back of his neck. He shivers.

“Yes. Of course.” Sherlock runs a hand through his hair. He swallows and the pale flesh of his neck contracts. “Follow me.”

He draws the curtains and the night pours through the window in a thick black flood. Fantastic shadows ricochet from the walls and taunt the fragile lamplight. Sherlock is a pale glimmer against the slice of black glass. He tucks the violin beneath his chin. A deep breath. He arches his wrist so that the bow presses soundlessly into the strings. A pause. He closes his eyes. John waits.

At the first note Sherlock melts into a surreal being, a ghost, impossibly white and fluid, framed by the liquid night. He is frightening and beautiful, an apparition, so slender that if you reached out and touched him he would dissipate into nothing but a spray of eerie musical notes. He reminds John of what he seemed when they first laid eyes upon one another, but warmer. When he opens his eyes they are liquid glass, and the color fluctuates with the crescendo and decrescendo of the music. Vivaldi again. Spring. He is being ironic of course. It suits him.

At long last the last note sobs from the violin and silence falls. Sherlock becomes human again and the night solidifies. The shadows calm. The lamplight strengthens. This time John does not applaud. He cannot. He watches as Sherlock bends to place his violin carefully on the windowsill and feels helplessly overcome by that something he cannot define.

Sherlock meets his eyes. “Was that alright?”

Oh, but John cannot possibly describe it to him.

-

They go for a walk. Curfew be damned. What can it matter to them anymore, anyways? No destination in particular. They wander aimlessly for a time, without speaking or even so much as looking at each other. At some point the air catches with light. The streetlamps, reflecting onto the glassy surface of the Thames. John comes to the edge of the bridge and stares into the water. In one motion Sherlock hoists himself onto the railing and dangles his legs from the edge.

“It’s nearly midnight,” he remarks softly. John does not look up from the water. For a time he watches the quivering reflections of the lamps on the surface, studies the trail of light left in the wake of the fat winter moon.

“I hate this,” he says eventually. “I bloody hate this, more than I’ve ever hated anything.”

Sherlock glances down and their eyes meet.

“Do you really?” His voice betrays nothing more than faint interest. John runs both hands through his hair in exasperation.

“Why else would I say it?” He shakes his head. “It’s not right, Sherlock. Something about this whole thing isn’t right at all.”

Sherlock stares out across the river. His expression is unreadable. “What do you mean?”

John pauses for a long while. Finally it occurs to him that perhaps if he does not seek a definition, he will find one after all. And so he simply begins to speak.

“It shouldn’t have happened this way. It’s not fair. Another time, another place, anywhere else in the world. It should have been different. Between us, I mean. You and me.” His voice quickens, tumbling, momentum. “It was _supposed_ to be different. This can’t be all there is. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. It’s impossible. There’s so much more to it. More.” He grips the rail of the bridge until his palms burn from the cold. “No. I won’t believe that it was supposed to end here. I can’t shake the feeling that you and I were supposed to be something more.”

Sherlock is completely still. “More?”

John nods. “Yes, more.” He is not entirely aware of what he is saying. His voice takes on a sharp edge. In the back of his mind it occurs to him that he must sound a bit like a madman. “More. Consider this, Sherlock. What if we had met under different circumstances? What if this was just one more night in hundreds, thousands? What if it didn’t end tomorrow? What if…” He trails off. His heart is pounding dizzyingly. His head throbs. “What would we do then?”

Quiet. John begins to realize what he has said. Sherlock does not move, does not even breathe. His eyes are distant. They both stare into the river. They dare not look away.

“Do forgive me for saying so, my dear Watson,” says Sherlock finally, and his voice is strange, stiff and starched like hospital sheets. John cannot bring himself to look at him. He is too afraid. The lapping of the water fills a pause that seems an eternity. At long last Sherlock exhales.

“But if the world actually acted on each and every _what if_ which we encounter each day,” he says glassily, “very little would ever come to pass.”

He pauses. Closes his eyes.

“Reality is reality. In the end, it is best not to consider such things.”

A long silence during which John feels something deep within him crumple.

“Yes,” he says at long last. “I suppose you’re right.”

Sherlock nods.

“Of course I’m right.” He does not look away from the river. “I’m always right.”

-

Dawn breaks, and the sunlight is ash, and London is a graveyard. It is a clear day with an icy wind that cuts through the walls. No rain; the air is dry, and the light pale. Each papery ray seems to flutter gradually down to rest and drift on the grey surface of the city, as though it were a pool of water. Neither of them has slept. They roamed London all night. They had nothing to fear. The streets are safe as a mausoleum nowadays, and likewise haunted by the inconstant sense of Death. He leers from alleyways and the cold empty windows of the shops, from the bloodstains on the sidewalk and the piles of sandbags and barbed wire on the street, from every abandoned apartment, but it is only a glimpse of his face. No longer is he constant presence at John’s side, at least not while Sherlock is there.

But he supposes that will change, too. Once the plane takes off.

It ends on the tarmac. The cold is bitter and John has his arms crossed the whole time. The queue of people and luggage is long. He and Sherlock keep silent vigil. He does not have the heart to ask for deductions. It would break him. Molly is there, too, with a thermos of tea in her hands, but they don’t see her. They don’t see much at all.

The last passengers are called. Molly runs ahead. Sherlock picks up his suitcase. Takes a step forwards. Looks at John. His eyes are chips of glass. They will not meet again. The war has taken over John. John is the war. John will die for it. They both know it. His eyes say nothing. John swallows. He opens his mouth. 

“Thank you, John,” interrupts Sherlock. “Thank you so much.”

They stand there for an instant, an age, two lifetimes wound together inseparably after just a month, and is that what they have become? John grits his teeth. Best not to wonder. Sherlock was right. Don’t count the what ifs. Of course he was right. Don’t look back.

John turns from the tarmac.

Death is at his shoulder.


End file.
